Anthony
by truemizzie
Summary: John's son broke all of Sherlock's rules, and when they met, Sherlock changed from the borderline sociopath most people thought he was to something that John had trouble describing... Godfather!Sherlock.  COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story exists entirely outside of all my other Sherlock fics, just in case you were wondering where Emma was hiding. She's not there.

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><p>Anthony<p>

Since John had met Sherlock Holmes in their late twenties, he believed he had only seen him grow attached to a handful of people. He rarely embraced anyone, rarely kissed anyone and very rarely held onto anyone. However, when the two men were in their thirties and John's wife gave birth to a healthy baby boy, it was as if everything John knew about Sherlock was nixed when he was in the presence of that boy. Anthony broke all of Sherlock's rules, and when they met, Sherlock changed from the borderline sociopath most people thought he was to something John had trouble describing. If he had to choose a title, though, he would have settled on "father."

There was a period of three years in which Sherlock Holmes had fooled John Watson into believing he was dead. While he was gone, John did an incredible thing: he moved on. Yes, there was the period of denial, the period of grieving, but eventually he allowed himself to live again. A year and a half after the Fall, John found himself engaged to the perfect woman, and by the time three years were up and Sherlock had decided to reveal his survival, John's wife had given birth to a son. A beautiful boy, with light hair like his father and brown eyes like his mother.

Anthony was seven months old when he and Sherlock were introduced. He didn't do much, but developmentally he was quite average and John's life revolved around him, irrationally believing that his son was the most precious life in the entire world. In fact, one of the first things he did when Sherlock returned (after an only slightly tedious case to solve) was bring Sherlock home to meet his wife and child. Sherlock greeted Mary by whispering a brief, "Hello," but Mary was the physical sort, and she pulled him into a tight embrace, Sherlock patting her back cautiously. John left to collect Anthony, and brought him back to the living room where Sherlock was trying to make small-talk with his wife. Interrupting, John simply plopped Anthony into Sherlock's arms, and the detective's eyes widened in what John could tell was close to fear.

John suddenly wondered if Sherlock could handle holding the baby, and began to reach out to take him back, but he stopped when he saw Sherlock's eyes narrow in curiosity and his hands wrap around Anthony, drawing him into his chest. The three adults sat around the living room, and it wasn't long before Anthony had fallen sound asleep in Sherlock's arms, the tall man never even letting go of him to take a sip of the tea Mary had brought out. Sherlock didn't give much of any attention to the boy, of course, but he never complained about holding him, and only let him go when Mary gathered him to put back in his cradle as Sherlock left their house for 221B.

"Come back soon," John ordered him as they said their goodbyes, and he thought he could see Sherlock's eyes darting towards the nursery as he answered:

"Of course."

Sherlock came back to visit often, not only to pick up John for the case of the week but to sit and visit, getting to know Mary and discover the life that John had built for himself over his three-year absence. Anthony would occasionally be awake during these visits, and whenever he was in the room Sherlock's focus would seem a little torn between John and the baby. Mary would often plop Anthony back down into Sherlock's arms, or seat him on the kitchen table in front of him, his legs dangling off the edge as he twiddled with some toy or another. Sherlock would remain a part of his conversation with John and Mary, but he would always place a cautionary hand around the boy, gently keeping him from slipping off the edge of the table.

A few months after Sherlock's return, John and Mary were sitting alone in their kitchen, filling out a will regarding Anthony, who was sound asleep in his nursery on the second floor. Mary wrote out all of his family member's names, and then stopped at a section midway through the form.

"We never did decide on Godparents, did we?" John noted, seeing her pause.

"Well, how's Harry been holding up these days?"

John pursed his lip. "I'd rather we went with Molly." Molly was the one who had introduced John to Mary. The two women were old schoolmates and best friends. Mary nodded and wrote down _Molly Hooper _next to the title _Godmother__._

"And I think the rest is clear, don't you?"

John chuckled. "I should give him a ring first, make sure he's willing."

"That won't be necessary." Sherlock had let himself into the house, surprising, but not frustrating John and Mary. "Your back door is open," he informed them, his eyes digging into John accusingly.

"It's a nice neighbourhood," John retorted, shrugging.

"You should know better: there are...hundreds of criminals out there! Thieves, murderers...kidnappers!"

John sighed and gave Mary an exasperated look, but she was already bent over the will, smiling slyly as she wrote next to the title of _Godfather__: Sherlock Holmes._

There were times at which John thought that Sherlock took greater pride in Anthony's developing than even he did. When Anthony was one-year old, he began to pull himself up to his feet. The new plane of height had him discovering the world in a completely different way, and he would often play with all the interesting things he could now reach. One day, Sherlock had joined John and Mary for tea, and the trio were sitting in the kitchen while Anthony wandered around its edges, until he came to one of the low cupboards. John watched his son patting on the door for a moment and returned to his conversation with Sherlock. John could easily tell that Sherlock was only pretending to listen, as his gaze was always moving away from him. By the end of whatever tale John was telling, Sherlock's focus was entirely on Anthony, so John joined him in watching the baby boy. He wrapped his tiny fingers around the handle and opened the cupboard door.

"As I was saying-" John began trying to re-enter their conversation, not hugely moved by the moment, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Fantastic!" Sherlock got up from his seat and crouched down on the ground next to Anthony, staring at his every move.

"Sherlock...?" John rested his chin on his hands and glanced at Mary, who seemed both delighted and amused by Sherlock's antics. "Sherlock!"

"John, don't you see?"

"See what?"

"He opened the cabinet, John!"

"Technically it's a cupboard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then let them go back to the baby.

"Sherlock, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop..._deducing _my son."

Sherlock stood, frustrated. Anthony was opening and closing the cupboard repeatedly.

"John...he opened the _cupboard._"

"Yes, Sherlock. He's a baby. They like to touch things. See what they do."

"As always, John, you have seen, but you have not _observed._" And then Sherlock had that glint in his eyes, the one he would only get at the end of a particularly intriguing case. Looking back, John would describe it as pride, except that it was not pride in the detective himself, it was in that tiny boy next to him. "Anthony did not open the cupboard to see how it worked," he explained. "He opened it to see what was inside!"

John would often speak of this as the day Sherlock became obsessed with Anthony's deducing education. Throughout the next year, Sherlock would come over multiple times per week just to visit the boy, watching him play and growing ecstatic when he would discover a new skill or even a new toy (the majority of which were gifts from Sherlock himself). There were multiple times that John would come home from work and Sherlock would already be in his living room, greeting him with things like:

"He's figured out the light switch!"

Or:

"John, he can tell the difference between a major and minor chord! Just watch his reaction while I play!"

Mary would always be nearby, if not in the room, watching the two. John's usual reaction was to simply join her, and they would enjoy viewing the bizarre interactions of Sherlock and Anthony.

It wasn't just Sherlock who delighted in Anthony, either. John's son _adored _his Godfather, and it was not unlike him to drop whatever he was entertaining himself with (whether it be a plaything or even a feeding) to climb his way to the father figure, showing off how his walking was improving every day.

The only thing that ever worried John about his boy was how quiet he was. At 14 months old, Anthony was motoring around rooms and inspecting every crevice, but he still hadn't said his first word yet. John suggested that Sherlock begin using the same childish terms he and Mary had become accustomed to, such as "Mummy" and "Dada" and "Doggy", so that he would hear more of the same words more often, and not the advanced language that Sherlock would communicate with, but the man simply scoffed, replying:

"Please. When he does start talking, wouldn't you prefer he do so eloquently, and not in a juvenile fashion?"

Sherlock was not actually present for Anthony's first word. It happened as Mary was putting a particularly rowdy Anthony into his cradle, and after the two parents had kissed him goodnight, they heard him coo,_ "Baba."_ 'Baba' was the word Mary would use in exchange for "bottle", and after a few minutes of praising Anthony and then settling him back down for bed, John and Mary went to their own bedroom. When the lights were off and the two were whispering about the day's events, Mary began to giggle.

"Oh, poor Sherlock. He'll be so disappointed." John laughed and pulled his wife into his chest, falling soundly asleep.

Sherlock came over the next day, and after a few minutes of catching up with the couple, he immediately began his light switch training with Anthony, this time with a flashlight. He was trying to get him to understand the difference between "light" and "dark", and why moving the switch would create light and get rid of it. Midway through the day, Mary came into the room with Anthony's bottle, which the boy addressed with his newly discovered word:

_"Baba!"_

Mary turned her eye to John, who let his own gaze fall onto the bewildered Sherlock. He half expected Sherlock to roll his eyes or scoff, but instead it was Sherlock who lifted the boy into the air, exclaiming:

"_Brilliant!_ John, did hear what he just said?"

John simply grinned and looked back at Mary, the two silently deciding to keep the previous night their own little secret.

By his second birthday, Anthony had learned all sorts of different words, and his parents decided to throw him a small party with some other couples and their babies from the neighbourhood. The party was lovely, but midway through John received a text from Sherlock.

_New case. Complications. -SH_

John texted back.

_Want back-up?_

_ No. Enjoy the party. -SH_

John was a little worried about his friend, but remained at his home, figuring that if something was the matter he should remain with his family. He had almost expected Sherlock to show up that night, after he had solved whatever case he was working on, but he didn't. John tried texting the man, but to no avail. By the end of the next day, he still hadn't heard from Sherlock, but was holding his cellphone in his hand as if he expected a response any second. Mary was on the floor, helping Anthony with a finger painting set Molly had bought him.

"Think something went wrong?" she asked, intuitively.

"I'm gonna try calling him," John whispered-partly to himself-as he dialled the number and put his phone to his ear. He let it ring until his call went to voice mail, and then hung-up. He shook his head and was putting the phone in his pocket when it began to vibrate. He opened his new message:

_Away for a while. Quit fretting. -SH_

John rolled his eyes and watched his family, Mary's pajamas already partially covered in the finger paints. He couldn't help but feel a little angry with Sherlock for missing the important day before, but the feeling was overwhelmed by his concern regarding his friend's safety. He decided that if Sherlock needed help, he would ask for it himself.

A week later, John still hadn't heard anything. He was on his Friday lunch-break at work when he texted Sherlock:

_Fretting. Where are you?_

No response. When John returned home that day, he bolted up the stairs to his bedroom and changed into what he called his "case clothes", a sweater, his coat, and a pair of flexible pants with a good pocket in the back to carry his army rifle. He was just planting a kiss on his napping boy's cheek when Mary appeared in the doorway, holding out her own cellphone to John. He picked it out of her hands and opened her latest message:

_He's coming after me. Don't let him leave the house. -SH_

John was pissed, but he gently handed the phone back to Mary and changed into his sweats, following Sherlock's instructions by staying home all weekend. He kept his rifle in his sweater pocket for some reason, though, and had it nearby at all times. Eventually, Monday morning rolled around, and John was woken up by his cellphone before his alarm went off.

_Call in sick. -SH_

John reluctantly did so, his grogginess enhancing the sickly sound he had added to his voice for authenticity. Instead of falling back asleep, he got up, put on his sweater (the rifle still in its pocket), and went to Anthony's room, sitting in the rocking chair Mary used to breastfeed in. The toddler was awake, playing with the bars on his crib. John thought he looked like a prisoner, and had the idea in his mind that Anthony was bored. He was restless, like Sherlock without a case. He was restless without Sherlock. It was still dark outside, and John fell asleep watching his son.

It was very late morning when he woke up. John nearly had an attack when he looked at his watch, thinking that he had slept through work, until he remembered his earlier awakening. Looking to the crib, he saw that Anthony was absent, and John bolted out of the chair and down the stairs to the living room, where a man in a dark hoodie and a knit cap was holding Anthony.

"Get out of my house!" He ordered, pulling out his gun, cocking it, and pointing at the back of the man's head. The man gently put Anthony down on the ground and slowly lifted his hands.

"John!" He heard Mary yell from behind him, and he nearly pulled the trigger. "What are you doing?"

John's brow furrowed and he looked at Anthony, who was reaching up for the strange man to lift him again. He turned back to Mary. She was holding a tray with three teacups, a pot and some sugar crystals. Neither he nor Mary took sugar in their tea. He dropped the gun, putting the safety back on.

"Could have just woken me up," he muttered as Sherlock picked up Anthony and turned around.

"Yes, but you looked so content. I didn't want to wake you," he said, removing the cap with his spare hand. John mouth gaped open when he saw Sherlock. His right eye was blackened, and there was dried blood under his nose. He had bruises all over one side of his face, blending into his hairline, and John could tell that he had some poking out of his neckline.

"I told him I'd take him to the hospital, but he insisted upon some tea first," Mary tattled on him, placing the tray on the coffee table. John sprung into doctor mode. He snatched Anthony from Sherlock's arms (to what seemed like both of their disdain) and ripped off Sherlock's zipped hoodie and the t-shirt underneath.

"If you won't go to the hospital, then you'll just have to do with me. _Now._" He pushed him down into an armchair and rushed into the kitchen for his advanced First Aid kit. By the time he had come back to the living room, Sherlock was already bouncing Anthony on his knee and drinking tea with Mary. Anthony was poking at Sherlock's bruised chest, saying, _"Ouchie," _repeatedly.

"_Ouchie, _indeed," Sherlock muttered as John began working on him, having to manoeuvre around Anthony to clean out cuts and properly place bandages. He finished by cracking a self-cooling ice pack and practically pounding it over Sherlock's eye. Mary had left for a moment and came back with an old sweater, which Sherlock accepted graciously. His body was covered, but the injuries on his face were still very visible.

"You should've told me," John said disdainfully as he himself finally sat down, picking up his own teacup.

"No, I needed you here." That was all Sherlock would say on the matter, and the group went on to have their normal conversations, Anthony's eyes darting around to whoever was speaking. Eventually, his eyes began to close, and Mary went to collect him.

"Naptime," she sang, and Sherlock let her take Anthony up to bed, caressing his light hair as Mary carried him away. The two men were alone.

"You should still go to the hospital," John told him half-heartedly, already knowing he wouldn't.

"Too many questions."

"Who?"

"Who what, John? Don't be vague."

"Who's after us?" And when John asked, it was clear that the _'us' _wasn't John and Sherlock, it was Mary and Anthony...and John himself, he supposed. Sherlock shrugged. "Please, Sherlock, I know you better than that. You wanted me here to look after them."

"No one is _after_ anyone. It was just a rather dangerous case. I didn't need you getting hurt."

"Don't lie to me." John would have yelled, but it wouldn't have accomplished anything. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, not accustomed to having anger between them. There was a long time of silence before Mary came back down.

"Lunch?" she offered, immediately noticing the hostility in the air.

"I think I'll go. Thank you, Mary." Sherlock stood to leave, and John walked him to the door habitually, Mary staying behind to clear the tea tray. Sherlock was about to let himself out, picking up the hoodie he had left by the door. He reached into it's pocket. "By the way," he said, pulling out tiny, yet smartly wrapped box, "this is for Anthony. For his birthday."

John sighed as he took the gift, suddenly guilty about having been so angry at Sherlock. "Thanks. You want to wait so you can be here when he opens it?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock answered simply, shaking his head. John observed Sherlock's face, and all of a sudden he realized the extent of Sherlock's dishonesty.

"You're going away again." It wasn't just a deduction, it was an accusation. Sherlock shrugged and opened the door, but John pushed it shut again.

"How long?"

"John, I must go-"

"How _long, _Sherlock?" John was livid.

"I can't say," Sherlock told him, honestly. John hung his head, unable to make eye contact with Sherlock, his disappointment too all-consuming. Sherlock cleared his throat and let himself out, locking the door himself before closing it. John would have let him go in silence, but instead he unlocked the door, threw it open, and yelled at Sherlock's back:

"You don't have to do this alone! I know you think you do, but I'll come. We can deal with this...whatever it is."

And Sherlock stopped, turning his battered face to John.

"I'm not doing this alone, John. I'm just...I'm taking care of one side, and you're taking care of the other."

John nodded, understanding. Sherlock would handle the villian. John would protect his family.

Sherlock wasn't back for over a year.

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><p>To be continued. Hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you think!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: A big thanks to everyone who read and favourite-d the first chapter of this story. I hope you continue to enjoy it and shoot me a review to let me know what you think! I'm very excited about this chapter.

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><p>Anthony, Chapter Two<p>

Anthony was the most brilliant toddler of them all-or so John believed of his son. By the time he reached three-years old he knew all sorts of words and was speaking in short sentences. He loved his finger paints, and he adored drawing pictures of the people in his life. John would brag at the clinic, showing off how impressive Anthony's latest piece was as he taped his son's artwork to his wall. He had graduated out of his crib to a tiny bed. He had begun pre-school, and seemed to enjoy it very much. Everyone said he was doing very well, recognizing all his colours and animal sounds. However, now and then when Anthony was at home, he would sit and stare at a blank page of paper, a crayon in hand, looking like the most bored little boy. John couldn't help but pity him. He never mentioned his Godfather-John wondered if he even remembered him.

John texted Sherlock occasionally. It was never anything poignant:

_Lestrade's wife just left him for a doctor. No, it wasn't me._

_ How are things in Glocca-Morra?_

_ So, what'dya think for Anthony's Christmas present: puppy or baseball?_

And Sherlock would sometimes text back:

_She'll go back to him when she gets bored. -SH_

_ John, I'm in New Jersey. This is hardly a vacation. -SH_

_ Whichever fits best in the microwave. Good for experimental purposes. In case it was unclear, I'm joking. -SH_

John just liked knowing that Sherlock was still out there, alive somewhere.

The day Sherlock had left John's house for the last time, he gave John a present for Anthony's second birthday. It was tiny, fitting neatly into the palm of John's hand. John opened it with Anthony that night, carefully untying the little bows and unfolding the wrapping paper. Finally, all that was left was a little box, and inside of that box was-to John's surprise-a little silver key. It came attached to a chain, presumably so Anthony could wear it around his neck, but John wasn't so sure that he trusted the two-year old not to strangle himself, so he only let Anthony play with the item under his or Mary's supervision. About a week after opening the gift, John texted Sherlock:

_What does it open?_

_ That's for him to figure out. -SH_

Unsurprising, as Sherlock had been trying to help Anthony identify the relationships between objects, and had touched upon the subject of keys before. Of course, he had far too much faith in the little boy, but for some reason the hefty task never bothered John, since it was nice to know that at least Sherlock had put some real thought into the gift.

Anthony didn't play much with the key that year. John wondered if he knew how. Sometimes he would take it upon himself to have Anthony try it out in different locks, if only to give him the right idea, but it never worked. Anthony wasn't interested, and why should he have been? He was three-years old and wanted to draw pictures, and there was no shame in that.

Mary was the one who would pull out old family photos to show Anthony his Godfather. _Uncle Sherlock, _she called the great detective. John never liked these trips down memory lane. Anthony probably barely remembered Sherlock, and Mary had no idea why he'd left (John had told her he was away on some grave business he didn't understand...it wasn't exactly a lie). But for John, looking at the old photos was difficult. For two years, he'd had his friend back-back from the dead, and then he had gone. He'd left John alone again. Sure, he'd send the occasional text, but all that did was tell John he was alive. He'd been alive before, when he was meant to be dead. John saw no difference between having texts or not. Sherlock was still gone.

But finally, when Anthony was a few months into his third-year of life, there was a knock at the door. John approached it cautiously-there had been no events in the past year to suggest any danger toward his family. John even wondered if Sherlock had lied to him about that, making up a less selfish reason for going away. But, of course, he had pretended to die in order to guard John's life, it was more than possible that he was protecting him once again. John held his gun cocked in one hand as he opened the front door with the other, and there was Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing his usual fare: an unusually tight button-down shirt, a blue scarf and his signature coat, lit only by John's porch lights. He shuffled into the house.

His smile pissed John off immensely, and he had the odd urge to wipe it off his face. Instead, though, he put the gun down on the nearest stand and did something more surprising than punching Sherlock: he hugged him. Briefly. With masculine back-patting. Sherlock didn't seem to mind as much as John assumed he would, tenderly patting John's back with just one arm. When John pulled out of the embrace, Sherlock had a mildly amused look on his face.

"It's good to be back," he stated, a mountain of meaning behind the simple greeting. John understood completely: Sherlock had won whatever battle he'd been out to fight, and if only for now, they were safe.

"I'm so sick of you leaving. Don't do it again," he warned, picking up the rifle again (and putting it in his back pocket, as he had intended to). Sherlock didn't respond. He would make no promises.

John let Sherlock remove his outdoor clothes and brought him into the kitchen. Mary wouldn't be home until late that night, and Anthony had already been put to bed. John made some tea for the two men and they sat down at the kitchen table.

"So, are you ever going to tell me which culprit took you away from us for another year?" He enquired, pursing his lips. Sherlock took a few sips of tea before answering.

"I thought perhaps you'd have guessed by now."

"Moriarty."

"Good."

"No." John shook his head. "Not good. But he's done now, isn't he? It's all sorted out?"

Sherlock rested his teacup on the table and wrapped his hands around it, as if willing it to warm him up. John recognized his look. _Doubt._

"I don't believe he'll be of any trouble to us in the near future," he said, simply.

"Sherlock, he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be dead _years ago!_"

"It appears he wasn't."

With that, a whole new world of questions was opened up to John, but he only asked one.

"What does he want with Anthony?"

Sherlock looked down into his cup. "He doesn't want Anthony," he began slowly. "He wanted you." John's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I knew if you thought it was just you in danger, like it was before, that you'd insist upon coming with me."

"Bastard," John muttered, his anger increasing by the second.

"I had to give you a reason to stay behind-"

"What were you _thinking, _Sherlock!" John slammed his hands down onto the table, smashing his own teacup into tiny pieces. He wanted to break more, to throw something or maybe even attack Sherlock. Instead he just stood up, clasping his hands behind his head to keep himself from doing any of those things. The first time Sherlock returned, John had reacted by fainting, his shock made palpable by his head hitting the floor. The disorientation from the fainting quickly turned into joy, and John never had the chance to be upset with Sherlock for leaving him in the first place. This time, though, John remembered to be angry. "Do you have any idea what could have happened to you, out there on your own? You could have died. _Actually _died. But who cares. You've done it before. Christ. Everything was fine-every_one _was fine. In case you don't remember, Sherlock, I _moved on. _But you came back. You came back, and actually had me thinking that everything was going to to turn out just fine, but it's not. It's not fine, because for some reason you _can't stop lying to me!_"

Even John couldn't believe how furious he was as he paced back and forth yelling at his friend. Sherlock watched him, his eyes following the upset doctor, his face paling at every line.

"You want to know what the worst part is?" John asked, pausing for Sherlock's response even though the question was clearly rhetorical. "The _worst part _is that you're going to do it again. Again and _again _until eventually, you won't come back. You _won't _come back, and that'll be alright, because by then..." he paused, but finished determinedly, "...by then I'll have stopped expecting you to."

There it was. Everything. Everything John had bundled up for years, spewed out over the kitchen table. He regretted the words almost as soon as he had said them, but it didn't stop him from meaning them. Sherlock just sat there, taking the abuse willingly, as if he knew he deserved it. John nearly apologized, but thought better of it, instead coldly saying:

"You should go."

Sherlock let his gaze fall before obediently exiting the kitchen. John could see the foyer from where he was standing, watching as Sherlock re-dressed himself in his scarf and coat. Not a word was spoken between them. Just as he was reaching for the doorknob, it turned, and Mary was coming inside.

"Sherlock! What a-"

She took one look at Sherlock and instantly felt the tension in the house. Sherlock merely slipped past her and jogged out the front door. Only John could see him glancing up the stairs as he left, certainly knowing where Anthony was sleeping.

Mary closed and locked the door, and was silent as she removed her coat. She brought her purse into the kitchen, and setting it down on the table, she noticed the mess.

"We're low on teacups as it is," she half-heartedly joked, already starting the clean the broken china pieces. John rushed forward to do it for her, and she allowed him to, leaning against the kitchen counter and folding her arms.

"Mary," John began, "I can explain-"

"I don't care what he's done," she stated defiantly, "And I don't care what you said, or how he's reacted." John stopped cleaning to listen. "All I know is that whatever he just did, he did because you're his best mate, and you're going to act like it and forgive him."

John sighed. "It's not that simple."

"It can be. So just let it." With that order, Mary left John alone to clean up the mess he had made. After he was finished, John sat down alone in the kitchen to drink some more tea and collect his thoughts. It didn't take him long to fall asleep there, his head resting on his arms. Has he followed his wife upstairs, he probably wouldn't have expected to see what she did.

Mary got ready for bed, and then made her way to Anthony's bedroom to check in on him. With the light from his night-light, Mary could see the toddler sound asleep on his small mattress, a blanket Molly had given him in his arms. Mary would have simply performed the quick check and then made her way to bed, but she had always been more observant than John, and when she felt a cool breeze coming from the window she knew better than to think John had made the mistake of leaving it open. Mary entered the bedroom and shut the door behind herself quietly, leaning casually against it. The only light in the room now came from the porch lights outside and the night-light next to Anthony's bed. It was the window that illuminated Sherlock's frame.

"Should I call the police, or do I not have to worry about this particular intruder?" she whispered humourously. Sherlock scoffed pleasantly at the jest, his chin resting atop his thumbs as he observed the sleeping boy. "He's missed you."

"He won't remember me. He's developing rapidly, his mind will have deleted multiple old memories."

"Oh, give yourself more credit than that. You're his favourite uncle."

"I'm not his uncle."

"No, but_ Godfather Sherlock_ just didn't have a proper ring to it."

Sherlock glanced at Mary. "You were so determined for him to know me?"

"Of course," she answered plainly. "You're family."

Sherlock bowed his head and used his upright thumbs to massage his temples. Mary thought he looked quite moved. "His reports from pre-school are very promising. I'm sure you're very proud."

"Glad to know you've been spying on him. John isn't really that mad at you, you know." Mary was clearly ignoring Sherlock's attempts at simplifying the conversation. "He's just...riled up. He missed you, too." Sherlock looked at her with his usual stern expression. "But he'll forgive you. He already has, he just doesn't know it yet."

"It was impractical for him to join me. His safety would have been compromised-"

"You don't need to explain yourself to me." Mary was treating Sherlock much the same way she had treated John before. "But you do need to quit it with the lies." Sherlock feigned confusion. "Was John in danger? Yes, probably, but you weren't so worried about him, were you? He can take care of himself, after all. You've seen him do it."

"I don't understand," Sherlock lied, already defeated.

"Please. You've lied enough tonight, but you didn't lie a year ago. You left John here to guard him-" she gestured towards Anthony, "-because the real danger to John is if he loses something he cares about."

Sherlock was still, uncomfortable. "Anthony is the bait to get to John. John is the bait to get to me."

"That's why you went and found whoever's after you yourself. No need for bait if the fish swims right into their net." Sherlock looked away, his chin falling back to his hands. Mary chuckled. "Don't you ever discredit my brilliance, Sherlock Holmes."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said sincerely. The two confided in the silence, until Mary decided she was too tired to stand around any longer.

"Well, I'm off to bed. I don't suppose I can interest you in exiting through a door?"

"No," Sherlock replied, standing. "I don't want to startle John."

"At least shut the window before you go, then. I need Anthony catching his death after all you've done for him."

Sherlock addressed her, "Mary...I don't need to tell you that you're in just as much danger as anyone else." She tilted her brow towards him, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, I see. Not enough to be the boys' Knight in shining armour, now you have to be mine as well?" She smiled appreciatively. "I know, Sherlock. Thank you. I promise I won't do anything reckless."

"See, when you say it, I actually believe you." Sherlock was constantly surprising himself when he was able to speak to Mary in the fashion he spoke to John. Honestly and humourously.

Mary opened the bedroom door to let herself out, but before closing it behind her she allowed herself to have the last word. "You're not allowed to worry about John tonight. The two of you are going to be fine. And in case it wasn't clear to the Great Detective yet: we all adore you. Goodnight, Sherlock." With that, Mary went to bed..

Before letting himself out of the Watson home, Sherlock took a quick stroll around Anthony's bedroom, taking in the various drawings and studying the books Mary had bought for him. He walked over to the bed, and there, hung around the short bedpost, was the key Sherlock had given him over a year beforehand. Sherlock caressed the key, happy that it hadn't simply been forgotten, even if the mystery of the lock was still unsolved.

Sherlock returned the very next day, and with him, eventually, so did normalcy.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes:

**To start, I'd like to t**hank Totally-T3ii3 for pointing out to me that John's gun is a pistol, not a rifle (as I've been mistakenly calling it). Thanks, and I shall fix that in upcoming chapters!

Now, I'd just like to thank everybody who is reading this story and sending in reviews – they mean a lot to me, and I love getting to hear what you all think, so thanks so much and I hope you continue to enjoy!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Three<strong>

John awoke the next morning to the sound of knocking. He raised his head from his arms-he had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. It didn't take much deducing to figure out who was knocking on his front door. Groggily, he got up and went to the foyer. He unlocked the door, opened it, and his friend was standing helplessly on his porch, a tray of coffee in hand.

"Come in, then," John told him, rolling his eyes. Sherlock stepped through the doorway and just stood there until John took his coat and hung it in the closet. He stood in front of Sherlock, eyeing him for a moment. The detective looked so ashamed, and John was ashamed too-ashamed of how he had reacted to Sherlock's best efforts at being a good friend. They were silent, and then John reached his hand out and clutched the scruff of Sherlock's neck, giving it a friendly squeeze. The two men grinned and John chuckled, and just like that they were the best of friends once again. John pulled Sherlock into the kitchen and took the coffee tray.

"You slept here all night," Sherlock stated, not needing to ask.

"Like a baby." John took the coffee with the letter 'C' on it's lid: cream, no sugar. He gave Sherlock his coffee and lifted Mary's tea out of the tray, too. "Shall I go wake her up?" he asked.

"No need." Mary was yawning as she entered the kitchen, arms stretched out above her head. John gave her the tea and turned, giving Mary and Sherlock a chance to share a knowing look. John went back to the tray, one to-go cup left.

"He's a little young for coffee."

Sherlock sat down at the table, in his usual chair. "It's hot chocolate," he justified.

John rolled his eyes. "Hold on a second." John left his coffee on the table and went out of the room. He could be heard running up the stairs, and a few minutes later he re-entered. Behind him, a groggy Anthony was tip-toeing into the kitchen, and he pulled himself up into a seat opposite Sherlock. He had a determinedly exhausted look on his face, and when John placed his hot chocolate on the table he simply glared at it bewildered. He still hadn't noticed the presence of his Godfather in the room. Sherlock, at a loss for what to do, reached over to the cup and opened the lid for Anthony, who finally looked up at the what the strange hand was attached to. He eyed Sherlock for at least a minute before his confused scowl became a grin, and he leaped from his seat to run around the table and jump on the detective. Sherlock joyfully pulled him up onto his lap and held the three-year old, eventually fetching him his hot chocolate and allowing Anthony to use him as a seat as they drank together.

John sat down opposite the pair, Mary joining him to his right. "See?" she prodded, playfully. "He knows exactly who you are."

"Sherly!" Anthony cheered, spilling some of his drink as raised his arms in celebration. Sherlock grabbed a tea towel from the oven rack near him, wiping the spill. John always noticed that while Sherlock never cleaned up his own mess, he was always more than willing to tidy up after Anthony. He made a mental note of taking his son to 221B sometime.

"Anthony," Sherlock began with a mildly scolding tone, "My name is pronounced Sherlock. Not Sherly."

"Sherly!" Anthony shouted again, as ecstatic as before. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he spent the rest of the morning with the Watson family, drinking coffee and tea and testing out all of the skills Anthony had learned during his year away. Just before Mary was about to take Anthony to bed, Sherlock stopped her, going to his coat pocket and pulling out another tiny box, exquisitely wrapped once again. This year, Anthony was old enough to open it himself. He ripped off the lovely wrapping paper in true toddler-fashion, and there in the box was a bronze key, slightly larger than the last. He helped Anthony add it to the chain of the first one, leaving him with a necklace of two different keys.

"He still hasn't figured out the last one," John reminded Sherlock as he was leaving that evening.

One side of Sherlock's lip twitched upward. "Of course not."

Throughout the coming months, Sherlock visited the house as often as he'd used to, teaching Anthony lessons, chatting with the family and taking John out on the (very) occasional adventure. Anthony would often draw pictures for Sherlock, and John would occasionally wonder what Sherlock did with them. When Anthony was dangerously close to four-years old, John went out for a night of drinking with Sherlock, Lestrade, and some of Lestrade's friends from the Yard. Sherlock (who himself was exceptionally inebriated, for Sherlock) refused to let John drive home that night, insisting that he stay at his apartment that night. John called Mary (he doesn't remember what he said, only the sound of her laughing at him on the other end) and slept on the couch, his old bedroom having been turned into a second lab (the kitchen, of course, was the first lab).

When John woke up the next morning, he had to trudge through the apartment's mess in order to get through the kitchen into the coffee cabinet. He opened the familiar cabinet and pulled out the closest coffee tin. It seemed light, so John assumed it was nearly empty, but when he opened the can he saw that there was no coffee mix inside of it at all. Inside the tin was every picture Anthony had ever given Sherlock. Little sketches of stick people, drawings of animals and lists of the numbers Anthony had learned from Sherlock. There was even a piece of paper with a list of alphabet letters and a picture to correspond with each letter (which Anthony's pre-school teachers had helped him complete, but the toddler was so proud of himself for drawing the stripes on the Zebra himself). He sifted through the collection, his heart melting, but when he heard Sherlock's bedroom door opening, he swiftly closed the tin and shoved it back into the cupboard, retrieving the second closest coffee jar. Sherlock strode into the room fully dressed, looking wide awake and not at all as hung-over as John felt.

"You look terrible," he told John, who couldn't keep himself from grinning despite the insult.

"Good deduction."

Sherlock was so apologetic when he missed Anthony's fourth birthday party for a case that he showed up the next day with an adult sized birthday cake and a present much larger than the ones before it, about the size of a large Oxford dictionary. John wondered if it was, in fact, a dictionary. John, Mary and Sherlock gathered on the floor of the living room around Anthony as Sherlock presented the gift to him.

"Thank you, Sherly!" Anthony cried (to Mary's delight) before tearing the gift wrap to pieces and discovering that the box underneath was the gift itself: a shiny, wooden black chest with a brass keyhole. Anthony reached into the front of his shirt and pulled out his key necklace.

"Good, Anthony," Sherlock praised him. "Now: which key do you think goes with this safe?" Anthony pointed his right index finger to the brass key, and Sherlock nodded approvingly. Anthony smartly removed the necklace from his body and twisted the brass key into the brass lock, as Sherlock had taught him. He opened the safe. It was filled with parchment paper, every piece footnoted with Anthony's full name (Anthony Jonathan Watson) and a space for the date. There was also a set of differently coloured markers.

"This is for you, Anthony, so that when you learn something new, or find something important, you can use this special paper to draw, or, when you're able, write what you've discovered. That way you'll never forget it," Sherlock explained. John nearly scoffed, reminded of Sherlock's mind palaces, but he couldn't help feeling touched by the thoughtful gift. "It's all for you, and only you have the key to open it when you want to look back on everything you've learned."

"It's your special safe-keeping box," Mary offered, and Sherlock nodded, accepting her more child-friendly explanation with a small smile.

Anthony gently looked through his gift, naming every colour of marker as he observed it. He stood and approached the kneeling Sherlock.

"Thank you, Uncle Sherly," he said again, this time with the precocious sincerity that only a four-year old could have. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and the man rubbed the boy's light, curly hair. John thought he was mad when he heard Sherlock give a tiny sniffle, but it couldn't be. He must have imagined it.

Anthony began Primary school a few months after his birthday, and all of his teachers said he was doing brilliantly. John loved coming home to find his son in the living room doing his homework. John helped with math, and Mary was the one who helped with letters and the alphabet. Sherlock still came over, of course, and sometimes John thought he could see a tinge of jealousy every time Anthony would tell him that his parents had already assisted him in finishing his take-home assignments, but the disappointment would end with whatever project of his own Sherlock had brought to teach Anthony.

While Anthony was learning to read and write in school, Sherlock was teaching him about the stains in his shirts and where they came from, or which accents came from different parts of England. Anthony learned subtraction from his teachers, but he learned induction from Sherlock Holmes. Anthony was completely obedient with Sherlock, only leaving his lessons when he was particularly inspired to run to his Safe-Keeping Box and draw a picture of what he had learned. Of course, John never saw any of these drawings, and neither did anyone except for Anthony, as promised.

Anthony was improving in skill every day, and while he knew a plethora of interesting and useful words, he wasn't particularly talkative. When he would talk, though, it was almost always in questions. Anthony loved asking questions, and Sherlock took no greater joy than in answering them. The two would sit for hours on end, Anthony drawing something artistic on some spare paper (he only used his Special paper if it was something _really _important) and asking Sherlock questions about things-about everything. Sherlock's answers were always too brilliant, too advanced, but Anthony would pretend to understand. In that way, John saw himself in his son.

When Anthony was in bed, Sherlock would sit in the house with John and Mary, and John would always find himself thrilled when his wife and his best friend would go on chatting about something or other and he could simply drink his tea and listen to two of the adults in the world that he adored best. When John first met Mary, he was only barely getting over the loss of Sherlock Holmes. He was damaged, in need of repair, and Mary had been the one to do it. She saved his heart, rebuilding it and filling all the empty spaces. It wasn't until they were picking their wedding parties that John had considered the possibility of Sherlock meeting her, but at the time the idea was preposterious, since there was no Sherlock. Greg Lestrade had graciously stepped in as a Best Man to Molly's Maid of Honour, and Harry had acted as his groomsman so Mary could include her own sister in the wedding. It was a lovely wedding, but up until the ceremony John still wished that Sherlock would come trampling into the Hall, dressed in a tuxedo and ready to take over for Greg at the last minute. His wishes were forgotten as soon as he saw his wife coming down the aisle in her white dress, and he didn't think about Sherlock as much until they were at the hospital, seven months into Mary's pregnancy. He thought about how Sherlock would feel about him becoming a father, and how he would feel about the coming child. Mostly, though, and perhaps only because Mary was someone John knew (unlike the unborn baby inside her), he wondered how Sherlock would like Mary, and how they would get along.

"Besides, it's not as if you're such a stranger to the tabloids yourself, Mr. Holmes! Or should I say, Mr. Deerstalker."

"That damn hat has been the hindering of my entire career!"

John grinned like an idiot as he listened to the mock-banter, the same kind he often had with each of them. _Oh yes, _he thought, _they like each other just fine._

Anthony's fifth birthday was the first Sherlock was able to attend since he turned one-year old, but back then their bond hadn't formed to be what it was with Anthony at five-years old. John and Mary threw him a party with his friends from pre-school, and the Watson backyard was filled with parents and children. Sherlock arrived an hour into the afternoon party with a nervous look on his face.

"Jeffrey will finally be starting Primary school this year..." Mr. Downey was telling John on the other side of the yard. John politely excused himself and crossed the grass to where Sherlock was stalking. Sherlock didn't even notice him until he placed a hand on his shoulder. He practically jumped at the touch.

"What is it?" John demanded, praying there wasn't any bad news. Sherlock brought a hand to his mouth. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost. "Sherlock?" John prodded, now frightened himself.

Sherlock was breathing too heavily when he spoke. "It's alright. Enjoy the party."

"No." John knew better than to accept that. "Come inside, let's have a chat-"

"We will later!" Sherlock hissed, and then he forced himself to be calm. "I swear." Sherlock pretended to be fine for Anthony's sake, and when it was time to open presents, he gave him a magnificently detailed map of London that was meant to be pasted onto his bedroom ceiling. John allowed himself to stop worrying for a moment as he went through Sherlock's previous gifts to Anthony, trying to solve the puzzle of them: it was, after all, a puzzle, in true Sherlockian fashion.

That night, after all of the guests had left, Anthony refused to fall asleep until John had fascined his new map to the ceiling of his room, a request to which John only agreed because it was his son's birthday. Anthony fell asleep on the floor next to his bed while John and Sherlock stood on chairs, fighting with the huge piece of wallpaper above them. John saw this as his chance to interrogate Sherlock.

"I over-reacted," Sherlock interrupted him before he could begin any questioning.

"That's bull-" John glanced at his sleeping son and bit his tongue before continuing, "-You said you'd tell me what was up. You promised."

"Alright. I do have something to tell you, but I don't know that I should." He was being just as vague as he was at the party.

"Since when do we keep secrets from each other?" John asked sarcastically.

"I just...don't know that it's my place to say anything..."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock struggled with a staple gun and a corner piece as he spoke. "It's not what you think. It has nothing to do with Moriarty or Anthony or anyone."

"Who does it have to do with, then? Mary?" John was joking, until he saw Sherlock's face grow a little too still. "Christ, Sherlock!" John stepped off of his chair, having fixed enough of his side of the mall to the ceiling for it to stay there a moment. Sherlock kept working on his corner. "What is it? Who's after my wife?"

"No one is after her,John. She's...she's perfectly safe."

John's arms spasmed into the air before he grabbed Sherlock by his waist and pulled him down to the floor. Anthony stirred, but didn't wake up. John held onto Sherlock's collar aggressively, muttering in mere segments. "What? Is wrong? With my wife?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock insisted, now seeming as nervous as he had been before.

John began to shake Sherlock. "What aren't you telling me! WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY WIFE!"

"NOTHING!" Sherlock yelled this time. And then: "She's pregnant!"

John dropped Sherlock instantly. Sherlock was inhaling and exhaling quickly, and John would have worried about him hyperventilating if he wasn't starting to himself. He backed up until he hit the bedroom wall, and his knees gave out as he crouched down against it, leaning his head back. Sherlock stumbled over to him. "It's okay," he insisted. "Just keep breathing...well, maybe a little slower than that..."

"How do you know?" John demanded. "Did she tell you?"

"No...but she's gained weight."

John's breathing did slow. "That doesn't mean anything!" he complained.

"Yes. It's not the gain, it's the placement of the weight. You know, in her hips and br-"

"Shut up. Shut up now." John didn't need to know exactly where Sherlock had been observing his wife. "You're sure?" he finally asked, settling down.

"Is he ever not?" Mary was standing in the doorway, wearing her nightgown, peering in at the two men against the wall. John eyed her, trying to see what Sherlock had been referring to.

"Well? Are you?"

"Would that be bad?"

John gaped. "What? No! God, no!" And all of a sudden, a wall of clarity fell upon him.

Actually, it wasn't a wall of clarity. It was a ceiling map of London, and it landed on his head. Mary watched as the map covered three of her favourite boys in the world and started laughing, softly at first, but growing into hysteria as the men under the paper joined in, and the three adults went on and on laughing until they had fought their way out to the hallway, Sherlock carrying the (somehow) still sleeping Anthony in his arms. John grasped Mary around the waist and kissed her square on the lips, having realized just how wonderful it was to have such a beautiful wife, a brilliant boy and the blessing of another child on the way. He turned to Sherlock.

"So, that was it? The big scary news?"

"I didn't know if it was proper to mention a woman's...state...before she herself deemed it appropriate."

Mary giggled. "Well, I've still got to see the doctor and make sure. But I think he makes house calls."

"Oh no, you definitely are. I'm quite certain of it now," Sherlock insisted, and _John_ was quite certain that his wife wasn't wearing anything under her nighty. He gave his friend an offended look, but Sherlock's naivety was too clear and he let himself chuckle as he looked back into the bedroom and the mess they had made.

"Looks like Anthony's sleeping in our bed tonight," he decided, not wanting to clean up until morning. Sherlock gladly handed the birthday boy over to his father and congratulated Mary before leaving the Watson home. The next morning, when John brought Anthony into his room to start fixing up, the ceiling was plastered with a shiny, brilliant map of London framed with little glow-in-the-dark stars, and there was a cold breeze coming in from the open window.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: **Thanks again for all of the sweet responses to the last chapter! It's such a pleasure to write Mary-I have a very clear idea of who she needs to be for John, and I hope you like her as much as I do. This chapter is shorter than the rest, but I'm hoping to have posted another chapter by tomorrow afternoon. Let me know your thoughts, and please enjoy.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Four<strong>

Mary was three months into her pregnancy before she and John sat Anthony down to explain that he was going to be getting a brand new baby brother or sister. The five-year old was sitting on the couch with his legs folded, nodding at every line, but John could tell that he didn't quite understand exactly what they were trying to tell him. The boy couldn't seem to grasp the idea that he wasn't going to be their only child, or that he would have to share the house with another person. At the end of their conversation, Anthony told his parents that he had homework to do.

"Would you like some help?" Mary asked, but Anthony shook his head and went to the kitchen, taking an English assignment out of his backpack an completing it on his own. Mary looked at John, disappointed. John shrugged.

"We'll try again another time."

John and Mary tried to help Anthony grasp the idea of a sibling, but for some reason, the boy would always just nod his head and get a lonely look on his face. After multiple unsuccessful attempts, John called in Sherlock. Sherlock arrived one night while Anthony was doing science homework-his class each got to plant their own seed in a glass vase, and they had to draw it at every stage of its life. Sherlock joined Anthony-who was colouring a picture his vase with precision surpassing his young age-at the kitchen table. John watched the scene from his seat back in the living room, Mary having gone out grocery shopping.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked Anthony of the vase.

"An experiment," the boy replied, never a talkative child. Sherlock immediately knew what the experiment was.

"A very good idea, your professor should be commended. So much easier to watch a plant grow through glass than soil."

Anthony didn't look up from his picture, but nodded his head as he always did when Sherlock said something too complicated for a five-year old to fully comprehend. John was surprised by Anthony's unfriendliness: he usually thrived in Sherlock's presence.

"When was the seed planted?" Sherlock asked, trying to make Anthony talk to him.

"In Science."

"Today?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you water it?"

"Two times."

"And where have you left it?"

"The window."

"Very good." Sherlock watched the boy colouring, and began to explain to him exactly how water and sunlight made a seed grow into a plant. Again, Anthony nodded, robotically. After a few minutes of silent colouring, Sherlock grew awkward, and John thought that he looked nervous. He probably wasn't used to Anthony's coldness. Sherlock complimented Anthony on the picture he had drawn and stood up to leave, deciding that it was not the right time to explain the baby situation to him. The boy's words stopped him.

"Mummy's having a baby." Sherlock turned.

"That is correct."

"When will it get here?"

"Not for a while. Six more months."

Anthony looked up at his Godfather. His face was all scrunched up. "That's a long time."

"It's longer for you than it is for me," Sherlock said.

"How long is it for you?"

John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he knew from the tone of his voice that Sherlock had come up with a brilliant idea, one that John couldn't figure out, but decided to trust.

"Can I come see your plant tomorrow?"

Anthony smiled. "Yes, Uncle Sherlock."

Sherlock kept up his half of the deal, and came to the house every day to watch Anthony draw pictures of his science project. He would give complicated explanations about how plants grew, why the roots looked the way they did and how you could tell what kind of plant it was. Anthony's teacher had given each student a different type of seed, so that the final result would be a surprise.

"I hope it's a flower," Anthony told Sherlock about a week into the project.

After a short time, a little bit of green was peeking out of the soil, and Anthony couldn't wait for Sherlock to come over so he could show it off.

"That means you're taking very good care of it," Sherlock told him. "Good job, Anthony!" Anthony was so excited that when he drew the plant that evening, he including a childish image of himself with a watering can.

A couple of days later, when the little green plant was about an inch tall, it was Anthony who re-opened the topic Sherlock had been trying to cover in the first place.

"Do babies grow like plants?" he asked Sherlock, his crayon never leaving his page.

"Not quite the same, but not too differently either." Sherlock went on to explain how the baby also began as a seed, and how it would grow inside of Mary until it was ready to be born.

"What's born?" Anthony asked. Sherlock carefully considered an answer for a moment, and then told him:

"I'll tell you another day. Keep working on your project."

It wasn't long before Anthony's sprout had grown all the way. Anthony was thrilled the day it grew petals and revealed itself to be a yellow primrose. Sherlock came over to teach him how to tend to the plant, continuing to feed it. By then, Mary was another month into her pregnancy, and Anthony would stroke her stomach, commenting every time he noticed it had grown (like his primrose, he would say).

Anthony's project was completed, and one day he came home with a yellow duo-tang with a sticker on it. He had received a perfect grade. John and Mary called Sherlock over immediately and the four of them replanted his primrose from the small vase he had gotten from the teacher into a larger pot (a gift from Sherlock). Afterwards, they put the pot back into Anthony's window. John and Mary started to go back downstairs, but Anthony stood still, saying he was going to stay in his room for a minute. Sherlock went to follow John and Mary out, but Anthony asked him to stay. Mary took John's hand and led him out of the room with her, closing the door.

Inside, Anthony told Sherlock to close his eyes and when he let him open them he had taken out his Safe-Keeping Box. He held a piece of the thick paper behind a hardcover book so Sherlock couldn't see what he was drawing.

"How much longer until Mummy has her baby?" he asked Sherlock, a marker working away on the page before him.

"Five more months," Sherlock answered him.

"Is_ that_ a long time?"

"For which one of us?"

"You."

Sherlock pointed to Anthony's plant in the window. "It took a month for your primrose to grow. Did it seem like a long time?"

Anthony looked at the yellow flower. "No," he finally decided.

"That's how I feel about the nine months it takes for a baby to be born."

"What's born?" Anthony asked him once again.

"Born is when the baby comes out of your mother and gets to live in the world. Like when we re-planted your flower tonight."

"So it can grow bigger," Anthony realized, and began to work away furiously at whatever he was putting on his special paper.

John's ear was pressed against Anthony's bedroom door, listening in on the entire conversation. Mary was next to him, a hand on her stomach. At that moment, she led John away, but if she had let him stay, he would have heard the pride in Sherlock's voice as he praised Anthony:

"_Excellent _deduction, my dear Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** Here's another quick chapter! I haven't been writing much, since I'm moving to Australia (from Canada) in less than a week and spend most of my time preparing for that. Also...I've discovered Doctor Who. I'm a few episodes into the second season (of the reboot) and I'm officially obsessed. I'll probably spend my entire 14-hour flight watching it, not gonna lie.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Five<strong>

Two months later, John and Mary went to the hospital for an ultra-sound, and when the nurse practitioner asked them if they wanted to know the gender of the baby, they said yes. Anthony had been begging to know ever since he realized that it could only be one of two things, and giving him a solid answer would be much more effective in calming his mind than telling him to wait another two months and be surprised. In that way, Anthony was like Sherlock: he liked knowing the details.

Anthony greeted them back at the Watson home, Sherlock the babysitter sitting in the recliner in the living room. John went to sit opposite him.

"You sure you should be letting him get the door? We could have been strangers."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, and then said, "Mary should stop wearing heels for a while. You can hear from the way she walks that they're hurting her feet." John sighed. It was Sherlock Holmes, and he would always know exactly who was at the door.

Anthony dragged his mother into the room and sat her down on the couch next to John. He hopped onto the arm-rest of Sherlock's recliner.

"Boy or girl? _Boy or girl?_" he demanded, and Sherlock looked interested as well.

"Anthony," Mary began sweetly, holding the bump on her stomach, "You're going to have a little baby sister." Anthony leaped off the recliner and jumped on his mother;s lap, ecstatic. Even Sherlock couldn't surpress his own grin.

"Congratulations," he mouthed to John as Anthony was yelling:

"A sister, a _sister! _Uncle Sherlock, a sister!" The celebration calmed eventually, and before too long the little boy grew tired. Mary took him to his bedroom.

"A girl," Sherlock said softly, more to himself than to John in the silence. John eyed his friend.

"You scared?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock admitted, "But you are." John sighed again, having been perfectly deduced.

"Well, you know, if she's anything like my wife..." His attempt at a joke failed as he realized the full extent of his nervousness. When Mary was pregnant with Anthony, and they had found out that he would be a boy, John was thrilled. Excited. There was no fear, only promise, and he naively decided that being a father would be simple. After Anthony was born, there were certainly huge changes in his life, but he never once felt inadequate. It all happened so fast, there wasn't time to stop and reconsider his qualifications as a dad. But this time, it was girl. "If she's anything like Mary-" he tried again, but Sherlock interrupted:

"-Then you'll take care of her just fine." John's brow furrowed in disbelief, but Sherlock was smiling, and John decided to trust his judgement.

While Anthony was excited about the prospect of a sister, he still didn't quite understand what it was to have one. John tried to explain it to him.

"You're Aunt Harry, she's _my_ sister," he reminded his son, but Harry had moved to Ireland with a new girlfriend, and Anthony didn't have many memories of the two of them together. Mary also tried to explain the prospect of siblings to Anthony, but she had no siblings, so he didn't find her words relevant enough to clear things up. They had even asked Sherlock to give it a go, but he rolled his eyes, and John figured that Sherlock might actually be the _worst _choice for the job.

It wasn't until a week after the news that Anthony learned what it meant to be a brother. John was in the living room with his son when the phone rang, and Anthony burst up from his craft-set on the floor to answer it.

"Watson residence," he said in his 'grown-up' voice. John surpressed his chuckle as best he could. "And who may I ask is speaking?" John held out his hand for the phone, but took it back immediately when he heard Anthony sounding out the name on the other end: "My...My...Oh! Your name is like my Godfather's!"

John instinctually rushed his index finger to his lips and shook his other hand, trying to give his son the message that he wasn't home. Anthony, of course, couldn't understand.

"Yes. No. He doesn't want to right now."

_'Ask him to call back later,' _John tried mouthing to his son, who wasn't paying attention.

"Are you related to my Sherlock Holmes?" Anthony asked Mycroft Holmes over the phone. John could hear him answering on the other end, but the words weren't clear. All of a sudden, Mary leaned into the doorway, clutching the kitchen phone and motioning for John to come join her. He obeyed, and they sat in the kitchen with the phone between their ears, listening in on what was going to be a very unusual introduction.

"_How _are you related to Uncle Sherlock?" Anthony was demanding, his voice on the phone doubling his voice from the living room.

_"I'm his brother, now can you please put your father on the phone-"_

"I'm going to be a brother, too! Uncle Sherlock didn't tell me he had a brother."

_ "That's fine, now if you'll-"_

"He said he grew up with all girls."

There was a long pause.

_"Perhaps I should call back later,"_ Mycroft's voice finally came through.

"No! Are you older than Uncle Sherlock?"

_"...Yes. Seven years older."_

"That makes you..." John pictured his son trying to count Mycroft's age on his fingers, which was impossible, since he didn't think his son even knew_ Sherlock's_ age.

_"I'm forty-four. Sherlock is thirty-seven."_

Anthony gasped before continuing his questioning. "Was Sherlock ever my age?"

_ "I'm sure almost everyone was, once."_

"And you were...?"

_"Twelve."_

"Do you know how old I am?"

Another pause.

_"Do you want to hear a story about Sherlock when he was five, Anthony?"_ John clasped a hand over his mouth to suppress any sound of surprise. Mary looked relieved. On one hand, it was scary to think that Mycroft was still watching them, but on the other, it was nice to know that his son had guards in high places. And after all: Mycroft had always kept an eye on John, why would it be any different with his new family?

"Oh yes! Yes!" Anthony replied, and Mycroft began to tell him his story.

_"It was thirty-two years ago. I know that must seem like a long time."_

"Longer for me than for you."

_"...Yes. Well, I had an important assignment due that day at school, and I had stayed up almost the entire night working on it."_

"What kind of project?"

_"A science project."_

"I like science. I just grew a primrose flower."

_"Impressive." _John heard the clacking of Mary smiling next to him. He hoped Mycroft couldn't hear. _ "Now, after I had finished my project, a model of the solar system-do you know what the solar system is?"_

"Like the planets?"

_"Better than your Godfather would know-"_ John surpressed a scoff. Sherlock knew next to nothing about astronomy. _"-I put my project in our kitchen and slept for as long as I could before I had to wake up for school. But, when I went back to the kitchen to collect it, Sherlock had been fiddling with it, and he bent all the wires. He had taken the rings off Jupiter and was trying to use them as a wheel for our pet hamster, and he had cut the Earth in half and poured his cereal into it. I scolded him, but he refused to apologize, claiming his destruction to be an experiment. I was so angry, and I took the broken contraption to school anyway. The teacher gave us our grades that same day, and mine was terrible."_ John wondered if he should be letting Anthony listen to the story, with a younger sibling of his own on the way, but Mary rested a hand on his shoulder, as if reading his mind. Mycroft continued:_ "I was nearly home that evening, with my mangled project in my arms, and all of a sudden I could hear Sherlock yelling my name from our backyard. I ran behind the house and I saw him. Before our father left, he had built us a treehouse, but neither of us ever used it. Well, Sherlock didn't have school that day, and our Mummy had let him play outside alone while she was on the telephone-" _John had never heard anything about Sherlock's upbringing. He would have to ask him about it sometime. _"-and Sherlock had gone up into the treehouse. He had taped my planet Earth back together and was trying to hang it off a branch of the tree, but he went too far and ended up_ on_ the branch, clinging to it for dear life."_

"What happened? Was he okay?"

_"Obviously he was okay, since he's still alive now."_

"Oh."

_"Everything was fine. I climbed up to the treehouse and got him off the branch. He was so frightened, I had to carry him down myself. He still felt terrible about destroying my project, and apologized for the rest of the week after that." _ Mycroft went quiet for a moment. _"I'm not sure why I told _you _that...nostalgia, I suppose. You do sound so like he used to."_

"Thank you."

_"...Well then, I'll let you be."_

"Why did you call my dad? He's on the phone now."

_"Yes, I know." _ John rolled his eyes, but didn't say a word. _"I just had a few questions for him, about a favour he and Sherlock did for me recently. But...no, thank you. I think...I think I'd prefer to speak with your Godfather instead. Goodnight-"_

"Mr. Holmes, wait!" Anthony yelled into the receiver, deafening John and Mary.

_"Something else?"_

"Yes. Mr. Holmes, if you were so mad at Uncle Sherlock, why did you still help him down?"

_"Because that's what big brothers do, Anthony Watson," _Mycroft answered without skipping a beat, and hung up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: **Thanks, as always, for the kind words I've gotten for this story. This chapter was difficult to write, and the subject matter is a little bit more mature than in previous matters, but I don't think it deserves a T-rating. If anyone out there thinks that I should perhaps edit the rating, please let me know, but otherwise, please enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think when you're done reading!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Six<strong>

Anthony couldn't wait to tell Sherlock all about what a good big brother he was going to be. The next evening, when Sherlock had brought John home from a quick case involving crossbow and a very moody old woman, Anthony ran to his Godfather and explained everything Mycroft had taught him.

"...And so I'll help her down from trees, no matter what, even if I'm really, _really _mad at her!" he finished, and while Sherlock didn't seem to impressed with Mycroft for revealing childhood embarrassment, he did praise Anthony for his deduction. Mary called the boys into the kitchen at six-fifteen, where she was serving supper at its usual time.

"I thought I told you I'd get everything," John said to her as she tried to set the table for everyone. John had been overprotective of his wife for the past month, overly concerned for her health.

"It's fine. I'm not a cripple!" she retorted, pushing him down into his seat with the strength only a pregant woman could possess. They ate dinner together, Sherlock hardly touching his own food as Anthony talked his ear off about his incoming sister, describing how she would look in great detail, and even asking to be excused so he could fetch a picture he had drawn of her: it was a little stick girl, with yellow spiralling hair and dark eyes like his own.

"I wanted to label my drawing, but she hasn't told me her name yet," Anthony stated, and Mary looked at John as if asking permission for something.

"Actually, Anthony...your dad and I had an idea that we might call her 'Rose,'" she told him, "Almost like your flower. Rose Harriet. Would that be alright?" Anthony nodded, and asked to be excused once again. After returning from his bedroom this time, he had a crayon on his hand, and he had John help him in spelling the name as he labelled the portrait of his sister.

Mary placed the picture on the fridge before taking Anthony up to bed, and it wasn't long afterwards that Sherlock went home to 221B and John and his wife went to bed themselves.

* * *

><p>Three days later, on a Saturday, Sherlock awoke to the ringing of his phone, the sun not even having come out yet. It was strange to hear the unfamiliar ringtone, as the only person who didn't tend to text him was Mycroft, but he had a special sound alert for him. Bewildered, he checked the called ID, and when he saw that it was John he answered it immediately.<p>

"John?" he asked into the receiver, confused.

_"Sherlock, I'm bringing Anthony over, can you take him for the day?"_ John was asking, his voice distanced from his phone. He must have been driving.

"'Course," Sherlock agreed, and hung up the phone. He didn't want John getting into an accident. As soon as he had gotten dressed, there was a knock at the door, and when Sherlock opened it he had a sleeping Anthony placed directly into his arms, a sweating John being the one doing the placing. "Everything all right?" Sherlock asked, but John said nothing, choking on a breath. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that everything was not all right. "Okay, it's okay, go-go!" he assured his friend, who turned from him thankfully and rushed back down the stairs. Sherlock shut the door, wishing that he could have gotten some intel on what was going on, but he figured that he would find out sooner or later. He looked down at the five-year old in his arms and then up at the mess in 221B. The place was covered in his experiments, and all of a sudden Sherlock decided that this was not a safe place for a child. He took the boy to the nearest chair-John's chair-and cleared it off, placing Anthony there once it was uncovered. He gently tucked a sheet around him and began to clean.

A few hours later, when Anthony was stirred awake by the sound of Sherlock's kettle, the apartment was quite tidy. There was still clutter around the edges, but the floor had been cleared and the kitchen actually appeared to be that: a kitchen. Of course, Anthony had never seen his Godfather's apartment before, and he had no idea where he had woken up.

"Mummy?" He called out into the strange place. He crawled out from under the blanket and set his feet down on the clean floor. "Dad?" And then: "Uncle Sherlock?" He heard the sound of a flushing toilet from behind a closed door, and soon after his Godfather emerged.

"Sorry about that," he said to Anthony as he made his way to the kitchen, the water having finished boiling. Anthony followed him, and instinctually took a seat at the table, like he would have if he were at home.

"Where am I?" Anthony asked.

"This is my apartment, Anthony. Would you like something to eat?"

"Where's Mum?"

Sherlock shrugged, not knowing the whereabouts of Anthony's parents himself, but trying not to worry. "Your dad brought you here for the day. They're very busy." He poured Anthony a bowl of cereal and placed it in front of him. Anthony ate obediently.

Anthony spent the rest of the day exploring 221B. Sherlock had locked the door to John's old bedroom, having hidden all of his dangerous knick-knacks and experiments there while his Godson was visiting. Anthony loved looking at Sherlock's things, though, particularly his skull. An entire hour passed with Sherlock doing nothing but watch the boy have an elaborate conversation with the bones, something he had often done himself before meeting John. He texted John midway through the day.

_Where are you? -SH_

_ Hospital. Be back for him tonight._

Sherlock wanted to ask _'Which hospital?' _or _'Is something the matter?' _but he knew that John would have already told him that if he'd wanted to, and neglected from doing so. Sherlock couldn't help his worrying, not having been able to fully deduce John that morning in his groggy state, but he kept up a straight posture for Anthony, who was blissfully unaware of the possibilities.

It was dinnertime (or so Sherlock decided, based on the Watson schedule-he himself never ate dinner unless it was provided by someone else), and while Anthony was chewing on his TV dinner, he suddenly had a fit. "Uncle Sherlock!" he yelled, and Sherlock sprang up from his seat to kneel down next to the boy, demanding to know what was wrong. "There's something wrong with my tooth!" Anthony told him, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

"What does it feel like?"

"It's wiggling," Anthony explained, sticking a finger in his mouth to show his Godfather. He was correct: Anthony's top-front tooth was wobbling back and forth at his touch.

"Yes, you're quite right," Sherlock informed him casually. Anthony frowned.

"What if it falls out?" he asked.

"It's supposed to do that, Anthony. This tooth will come out, and a better, stronger one will take its place."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Oh yes."

Anthony's eyebrows closed in on one another. "I don't like it moving around." Sherlock got an idea.

"Would you like to take it out?" he offered. Anthony suddenly looked fearful.

"But won't it hurt?"

"Not a bit. It's not attached to anything anymore."

Anthony seemed to consider the idea. "How?"

Sherlock came up with a plan to tie a string to Anthony's tooth and attach half of it to a door. Anthony would slam the door shut, and his tooth would come out then. That way, they wouldn't lose it, it would just hang off the doorhandle.

"And then the Tooth Fairy will take it, right Uncle Sherlock?" Anthony asked. "Mummy told me that, and that she'd give me something in return for it." It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to dash the boy's dream, a problem he also had every Christmastime. He simply nodded his head, a fake smile on his face.

The plan was in action. Sherlock tied a string to Anthony's tooth and allowed the boy to pick which door he wanted to use to remove it. The boy, of course, chose the locked door to his father's old room, and Sherlock reluctantly agreed, unlocking the door and revealing the mess. Anthony marvelled at the sight.

"Wow! Id dat your scice lab?" he asked, the string hindering his annunciation.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, simply, and placed Anthony's hand on the side of the door. He kneeled behind Anthony and grasped his shoulders so the boy wouldn't go flying with the string. "Whenever you're ready, Anthony." Suddenly, Anthony froze.

"Scared..." Anthony mumbled, and started to shake a little, as if he was going to cry. Sherlock squeezed his shoulders.

"It's okay to be scared, but there are some things you still have to do in order to make other things better. That's what bravery is, Anthony."

"Do you have thad? Do you have bravery, Uncle Therlock?"

Sherlock surpressed a laugh. "Your father would say I had...impulsiveness. Or a death-wish. Probably not courage."

"What's courage?"

"The same thing as bravery. Remember when we talked about different words meaning the same thing?"

"Yeah." Anthony was still shaking, even with Sherlock trying to take his mind off the current problem. "Doeth my dad have...courash?"

And Sherlock let himself smile, not as worried about John as he had been earlier that day. "Oh yes, Anthony. Loads of it."

And at that moment, Anthony slammed the door shut, yelping at the noise. He brought a hand to his mouth, feeling around for the change.

"Did that hurt?" Sherlock asked him. Anthony shook his head.

"I'm bleeding." Sherlock rushed to the kitchen and brought back a paper towel, handing it to the boy. Anthony held it against the gap in his teeth, looking immensely proud of himself.

"That was very brave, Anthony," Sherlock told the boy, patting his head.

"Dad must have left me some when he brought me over," Anthony informed his Godfather. Sherlock looked at the clock-it was nearly seven o'clock and he hadn't heard anything from John since his earlier text. He decided to allow Anthony to stay awake with him and wait, turning on the television to a show called Doctor Who, which Sherlock had never seen, but Anthony absolutely loved. A little over an hour later, Sherlock heard familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. He got up and answered the door before John had a chance to knock.

The doctor looked completely exhausted, and was dressed terribly in a pair of jeans and still wearing his night t-shirt, a worn-out sweater overtop of it. His hair was matted, as if he had been fussing with it throughout the day to make it look somewhat presentable, and he had dark bags under his eyes. Only Sherlock would notice that his eyelashes were still damp, but he said nothing.

"Dad! Guess what!" Anthony ran to embrace his father, who sauntered into the room after giving Sherlock a look so defeated that the detective's heart took an extra beat. John looked down at his son and did something he seldom did since Anthony had grown so big: he lifted him up. Anthony instinctually wrapped his legs around his father's waist and latched his arms around his neck, appearing excited to be up so high.

"What did I miss?" John asked his boy. Anthony opened his mouth wide and showed his father the empty space between his front teeth, and John gave a smile that Sherlock could see was only partially fake. "That's great, Anthony. That means you're growing up."

"I got it out myself," Anthony informed his father, and added: "Sherlock says it means I'm brave like you, Dad." John cleared his throat and looked sideways for half a second before returning his gaze to Anthony, who was already onto his next question. "Where's Mum?"

"Mum's going to be in the hospital tonight. I have to go back and see her." John was looking at Sherlock while he asked his son: "Is it okay if you sleep here at Uncle Sherlock's tonight? It would be really good for your Mum and I if you did." Sherlock, understanding, nodded at the same time as Anthony did.

"You can sleep in my room, Anthony, if you'd like," Sherlock offered the boy.

"Can I put my tooth under your pillow, too?" Anthony asked excitedly.

"Certainly."

"Can I go do it, now?"

It was John who responded. "I think that's a good idea." But before he put his son back on the ground, he reached one hand to his hair and pulled him into his chest, resting his cheek on the child's head and closing his eyes for a second. Anthony gave his father a kiss before rushing to Sherlock's room and closing the door.

"You don't need to give him your bed, you know," John told Sherlock bashfully.

"It's alright," Sherlock assured his friend. "I don't think I'll be sleeping anytime soon, anyway."

John cleared his throat again, breaking eye-contact with Sherlock, who was eyeing the man carefully. The best word to describe John at that moment was _tired_.

"I've got to go back," John told him, as if he'd only just remembered. But Sherlock shut the door.

"No," he said, "Stay here for a while, first. They'll just be keeping you in that waiting room, anyway." John took a long, slow breath, but nodded, and slowly approached his old chair, sitting down in it just as he'd used to. Sherlock went to the kitchen and busied himself with the kettle as his mind ran through every possible thing that could have gone wrong that night. By the time the water had finished boiling, Sherlock knew that there was only thing that could have put Mary in the hospital that night, and that she'd be there for another couple of days. He took two cups of tea back out to the living room, where John was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped together. They only opened to take the warm cup, which he looked down into as Sherlock spoke from his own seat. "I'm not on a case right now, and I don't need to take one for the next little while," he told John, who shook his head.

"No. No, I can't ask you to do that-"

"-You didn't. He'll stay here." The decision was final.

John brought a hand to his mouth, wiping away something that wasn't there. "She just..." he began, but his voice broke. Sherlock waited for him to continue. "It just...went away. Just like that." Sherlock's deduction was confirmed, and he realized that he had no idea what to do when John's eyes filled with water that dripped slowly down his cheeks, the Doctor attempting to wipe them away without Sherlock noticing. But Sherlock noticed everything. He set down his own teacup and leaned forwards toward John, no idea to what he could possibly say to him to improve things, because nothing could do that. All he could do on that dark, cold night was place one hand on John's knee and patiently listen to his best friend's sobbing.

Anthony stayed with Sherlock for another two nights after that, until John was finally able to bring Mary home. She was still exhausted from the hospital, and when Sherlock brought Anthony over to the house and her son leaped onto her lap, she calmly asked him not to. Anthony let himself down, and looked at her with confused eyes. She brought a hand to his face and kissed his forehead.

"You look different," Anthony told Mary, eyeing her stomach.

It was John who tasked himself with trying to explain the whole situation to Anthony, Mary having gone up to their bedroom to rest. Sherlock was still over, and had offered to do it for him, but John knew that it was best for him to say the words, so that he, too, could heal. Anthony listened politely, seeing that his father was as sad as his mother had been. He asked only one question.

"Did Rose fall out of Mummy like my tooth?"

John brought a hand up to his face, the comparison all too clear, and Sherlock answered for him:

"Not exactly. Why don't you go up to your room, Anthony?"

Anthony did as he was told, and Sherlock stayed in the house with John. The two were chatting menially.

"I'll have to get back into work tomorrow-" John was saying when Anthony came bounding down the stairs, his vase in hand. He ran it over to Sherlock. Anthony's primrose hadn't been watered for days, and it had started to turn brown. The sight was too much for John, who gave Sherlock a guilty look as he left the room, going upstairs to join Mary. Sherlock took the vase from Anthony.

"Is it dead?" Anything was asking. Sherlock stood up with the plant, taking it to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water and slowly poured it into the soil, trying not to drown the dying flower. "Oh, please, Uncle Sherlock-fix it!" Sherlock frowned. There was a lot that he knew about botany, and he wasn't sure if he could fix this for Anthony, just as he couldn't fix things for John and Mary.

"I'll do my best," he assured the boy before taking him up to his own bed. Instead of leaving the plant back in Anthony's window, he held onto it, asking before he left: "Can I take this home, Anthony? I have an experiment that might help."

Anthony nodded and wished Sherlock a good night as he left.

* * *

><p>John answered the door three afternoons later. Mary had started moving about more, but the tradgedy was still fresh, and John had found it difficult whenever Anthony would bring up the subject of his lost sister, asking things like:<p>

"If Rose got taken away, do we get a trade for her? Like the money for my tooth?"

John had to explain to his son that they wouldn't get anything in return for losing the baby.

"But that's not fair," Anthony complained.

"No. You're right. It's not fair."

But there, on that Thursday night, Sherlock stood in John's doorway holding a beautiful yellow Primrose flower. Anthony ran down the stairs and around John.

"I knew it was you, Uncle! You always knock three times!" And then he noticed the flower, and stared at it in awe.

"You fixed it?" he asked warily, having recently learned that things don't always go right, and that it was possible his flower was, in fact, dead. But Sherlock handed Anthony the vase, and he ran it up to his bedroom, eager to get it back into the sunlight. John invited Sherlock inside.

"No," Sherlock refused, "I have a new case. Lestrade and I are going to Windsor for the week to investigate a murder. I would have invited you along, but..."

"Yeah." John hung his head for a moment. "Well, be careful."

"You know me."

John laughed. Sherlock began to turn, but John reached out a hand to him, pulling him back. "You didn't have to do that, you know," he said, motioning up the stairs. "I don't know how I feel about lying to him."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock...I know he's had enough death to deal with this week, but you can't just...replace it."

"Replace what?" Sherlock asked, and John could tell that he was genuinely curious.

"You mean...it's the same flower?"

"Primroses are amazing flowers-they can last for years. Mrs. Hudson had one that lasted twelve before it wilted. Strong, too...just when you think they're done-for, with a little extra care, they can bounce right back." John tried to hide his sniffle. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch familiar to John, comforting him. "I know it doesn't replace her, and I know it doesn't fix everything...but you're right: I think we've all seen enough loss for a while."

"Thank you," John whispered, and Sherlock left with a bittersweet smile.

John shut the door behind him and walked up the stairs to where Anthony was drawing his primrose on one of his special pieces of paper. John tried not to look, but he was overcome by the beauty of what his son was creating. Anthony turned around, noticing his father.

"Sorry," John muttered, turning his head so Anthony didn't think he was peeking.

"No. Come look, Dad," he invited, and John sat his son on his lap as he finished his picture of the yellow primrose. When he was finished, he labelled the picture 'Rose Harriet Watson.'

"Dad, can we put this picture on the fridge? Instead of the old one?"

"Why?" John asked him.

"Because's that's not Rose," Anthony answered. John agreed, and they went downstairs to the kitchen. John removed the picture of what should have been his little girl and replaced it with Anthony's drawing of his primrose. As he placed the magnet onto the paper, he saw Mary leaning in the doorway, watching the scene. "Oh yes," Anthony said proudly when he was finished. "That's her."

And John was overcome with emotion when he looked at his wife, who was smiling for the first time in days, because Rose would always be a part of their family. Even if they never got to meet her, she would always live on in their son.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: **Big thanks to Jodi2011, who gave me some excellent tips on writing in a more British fashion, and also for informing me that I refer to Mary as Sarah for much of chapter three. Woops. And thanks to everyone else, too, for their lovely reviews and comments. As always, they mean loads to me, so keem 'em coming!

**Another Note:** I re-uploaded this chapter because people can't seem to get past chapter three at the moment, and I'm hoping that re-adding the last chapter might fix that. So if you get two chapter sevens in your alert box, that's why!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Seven<strong>

On Anthony's sixth birthday, Sherlock gave him a box of seeds. It was filled with little bags of different types of seeds for different types of flowers. When Anthony went outside to his backyard, Sherlock had cultivated an empty garden, ready for the seeds to be planted. Anthony went to explore the new soil, picking and choosing where he wanted to plant whichever flower while John, Mary and Sherlock watched him from the back porch. The other guests had remained inside. Mary grasped Sherlock's hand.

"He's going to love this, spending so much time with you," she said, but Sherlock turned to her and replied:

"Actually, I thought it was something he could do with you."

Mary squeezed Sherlock's hand, and kissed him on the cheek. The detective looked a little surprised at the gesture, but accepted it, and turned back to his Godson.

Anthony and Mary were in the garden day after day, placing seeds and watering them until, months later, when the timing was perfect, they had a garden. Mary took great pride in her new backyard, adding special little fountains and gnomes that Anthony also loved. Right in the centre of the garden, there was a patch of roses, and in the centre of those roses was a single yellow primrose. John could never properly thank Sherlock for the gift he had given his family: the gift of healing. In his way, though, John decided that Sherlock knew.

Anthony was in Year Two at school, and he would occasionally bring friends over from school. The kids would do their homework together and then play in the yard or the living room, out in their own worlds. John got a not-so pleasant surprise one day when his son brought back a little boy named Christopher, who was a year above Anthony in school and just happened to be the son of someone he didn't like too much: Sally Donovan. When Donovan came to the door to pick up her son, John simply rolled his eyes at her and was polite enough to not slam the door at her back as she left. Chris, after all, happened to be quite nice, and very sweet to Anthony. Too bad his mother was a jealous idiot.

Of course the two boys became the best of friends, and by the time Anthony had reached his seventh birthday, he didn't have much time for his parents. John and Mary threw him a birthday party, and he spent the entire day outside with his friends, only coming back inside the house for food or cake. But Anthony always left a little time for Sherlock-who gave him a darkwood eisel that year-probably because Sherlock didn't visit too often anymore. John would occasionally text Sherlock, asking him over for tea or dinner, but he would usually be met with an alert message saying that Sherlock was out of range. Every few months, though, Sherlock would appear in his doorway, and John would pretend like nothing about it was odd. On Anthony's birthday, though, John confronted Sherlock. All of the adult guests to the party were mothers, and Mary had them all chatting over tea in the kitchen. John and Sherlock found quiet in the living room.

"I've been missing our cases," John told his friend, which was true. John hadn't been out on a case with Sherlock since the miscarriage.

"You've been busy at work. You're due for a promotion," Sherlock informed him. Again, it was true: John had practically packed up his office already, having been promised a higher position in the near future by his boss.

"Yes, well...just because I'm not on a case, doesn't mean you can't come over every now and then." Sherlock frowned. "Besides, he likes seeing you."

"Miss me, do you?" Sherlock tried to joke, but he was never very good at humour. John's face grew serious.

"Has anything gone wrong? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No," Sherlock answered, simply, and John couldn't tell if he was telling the truth. "The garden is still lovely. It survived winter well."

"Yeah, Mary's worked hard on it. Anthony, too, but he spends less time watering the flowers as he does drawing them. You ought to see some of his artwork, it's his top class at school."

"I saw."

"You're reading his reports, then?" John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who nodded absently. "You could just ask him about it. I'm sure he'd talk your ear off. He has this one teacher, Mrs. Ra-"

"-My father died this morning."

John stopped. He searched his mind for the proper words, how to respond to the news, but he didn't know what to say. Was this bad news? As far as he knew, Sherlock didn't grow up with his father. Did this upset him? Finally, John found something-a question, but it was something.

"Is that where you've been?"

"Not all the time," Sherlock answered, leaving some of the mystery still intact. "Mycroft located him a few months ago, in a town in the States. Or, perhaps I should clarify...Emmett found him."

"Emmett-is that his name?"

"Yes. He had run out of money for his...treatments."

John eyed Sherlock carefully, looking for some trace of emotion. None. With Sherlock, that wasn't always a good sign.

"What'd he have?" John asked, and Sherlock leaned back into the couch he was sitting on. The sound of the kids yelling outside could be heard for a moment as they chased a circle around the front of the house, but it was silent again once they had returned to the backyard.

"He died from the withdrawal...had a seizure, lost his breath," Sherlock finally stated, and for a second John thought he looked like he was about to laugh. "So old, and yet all he wanted was more. But he couldn't afford it."

"He wanted money...for drugs?"

"Mycroft had the chance to know our father a little before he left. I knew that they had kept in touch to some extent, but Mycroft broke it off as he reached adulthood."

"You never talked to him, then?"

"No," Sherlock answered, "but he came around."

"What d'you mean, _'he came around?'_"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, he liked to know what I was doing, keep an eye on my accomplishments...and my failures." John leaned forward in his own chair, scrutinizing Sherlock's face to find some semblance of feeling on the matter. Sherlock noticed. "I'm not affected, if that's your concern, John."

"No?"

Sherlock shook his head, not looking at him. "No. But-" He stopped, and seemed to be placing words together in his mind before he said them aloud. "-I do think that Mycroft is quite...troubled...by the whole...matter."

John leaned back himself. So much of Sherlock's life was becoming more clear, but at the same time, it became muddier. Sherlock's father was a drug addict who left his family when he was a child. John knew that Sherlock himself had once had his own problems with drugs, but that wasn't something they spoke of, John understanding that Sherlock's best defence against his former addiction was to simply forget about it. Cigarettes were still a problem with him, yes, but at least those were legal, and Sherlock fully understood their negative affect on his health, so he did his best to keep them, too, out of sight, and therefore, out of mind.

And then, there they were: John worrying about Sherlock who was worrying about Mycroft. Or was he?

"You've been with Mycroft, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He called when my father was brought to England. He..._insisted_-" John got the feeling that Sherlock meant to say _'begged'_,"-that I join him in welcoming Emmett Holmes. I thought it best to comply."

"That was good of you," John said sincerely. Sherlock had joined Mycroft where Mycroft couldn't go alone.

"Perhaps," Sherlock admitted, without a morsel of pride on his face. But John was proud of him. "Mycroft refused our father his money, but offered him medical care. He wouldn't take it." Sherlock then leaned forward, resting his chin on his thumbs and pressing his lips against his index fingers. John marvelled at the sight, knowing that Sherlock was deep in thought, possibly running through the entire event in his mind. "He was kept quite comfortable as he died," Sherlock finally told John, "In fact...he didn't. His body healed completely and Mycroft truly believed he might have beaten the addiction. He went back to Florida."

"And then?"

"Mycroft heard nothing for months. Until this morning..." Sherlock trailed off, waving a hand through the air as if it finished the story.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For..." John didn't know how to respond. "I don't know. For Mycroft, I suppose."

"Yes..." Sherlock whispered into his index fingers. "Well, he still has Mother. Regardless," Sherlock sat up, exhaling his stiffness in that one word, "I'll be rather absent for a while longer. You understand."

John nodded. "Yeah, that's alright."

"And afterwards," Sherlock added, "I thought we might take a short trip to Wales. A matter has been brought to my attention there, one which, based on the positioning of the moon, we won't have to worry about for nearly another month."

John couldn't contain his grin. "You asking me on a case, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock smiled back as confirmation, and began to stand. "Well, I'd best be going." John walked Sherlock to the front door. "Give my regards to _Sally_, would you?"

"_Certainly_," John answered sarcastically, and couldn't help but add: "Sherlock...I am sorry. About your dad."

"He wasn't my _dad_, John." Sherlock sighed. "But...yes. Thank you. Oh!" Something occurred to him. "And you, John...how are _you_ holding up?"

John might have laughed at Sherlock for his attempted _'how are you?'_, but he didn't. "We're alright, thanks for asking. Mary just loves the garden," he said, turning around to see his wive giggling in the kitchen. When he turned back, Sherlock's face had grown a little more solemn.

"Have you given any thought to..." he glanced at Mary, "...trying again?"

John couldn't help being a little surprised by the inquiry. It was a little tactless, but he appreciated the thought of it all the same. "Um...no," He answered, his gaze hitting the floor for a moment. "No. Besides, Anthony is...it wouldn't be right. The timing."

"Right." Sherlock looked embarassed for asking. "Well, goodnight, John," he said, and went to leave. John gave Sherlock an appreciative pat on the shoulder as his goodbye and shut the door softly behind him, unoffended.

Three weeks later John got a text from Sherlock.

_Pack for three nights. -SH_

He complied, and the two men went on their first case together in well over a year. It took the entire week to solve, with no laundry facilities, but John didn't mind. Not a bit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: **Just a big thanks to all my readers and reviewers, as always! You're making this story worth it. Keep sending me your thoughts!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Eight<strong>

Chris Donovan came over to John's house two or three times a week to play with Anthony. The two boys could spend hours running around the backyard, using the taller plants as forts as they went through boyish battle scenes in their play. As the weeks went on, they had created an entire story and a whole new world to go with their game as they defeated evil together. When Chris went home, Anthony would sit with his mother and father and tell them all about their adventures. John loved hearing his son's stories because they were so creative, but mostly he was just happy that Anthony still wanted to spend time with him, even if it was only to talk about the more exciting fare he had just been through with his friend.

The only thing that John and Mary liked more than Anthony telling them his stories was listening to him telling the often-absent Sherlock, because Sherlock would not only listen, he would try to help Anthony deduce the solutions to whichever mystery he was solving in his games. Sherlock didn't treat Anthony's stories as fiction, and John sometimes wondered if he did it on purpose. Anthony, of course, loved it, and as the months went on his games with Chris became less about battles and fighting and more about clever crimes and mystery hunting.

That Christmas was the first that Anthony did not only receive gifts, he gave gifts to his parents as well. After he had opened all of his presents (which included new paints, a shovel and more seeds from Sherlock for the garden), he ran upstairs to his bedroom and brought down a box full of things he had made for them. He gave Mary a painted clay figurine of a dwarf he had made in school for their garden. He gave John a piece of cardboard with rocks glued to it, spelling out ANTHONY. He then told his parents that he had made more presents, too, and asked when Sherlock and Molly were coming over next. Sherlock never came over for Christmas-John knew that Mrs. Hudson had to force him out of his flat on Christmas day if he didn't have a case. She would force feed him some turkey and they would exchange gifts. But that night, John texted Sherlock.

_I think Anthony has something special for you._

_ Be over soon. -SH_

Sherlock arrived about an hour later, claiming that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let him leave until he'd had at least one more plate of food, but John wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. He noticed that Sherlock wasn't wearing a scarf, which was not only just out of character for him, it was impractical not to wear one in winter. Anthony collected his Godfather and dragged him to the Christmas tree. Molly had beaten him there, having already been on her way (she always visited the Watsons at Christmas). She greeted Sherlock awkwardly, her crush on him never-ending. Anthony pulled out his cardboard box of unwrapped gifts. He gave Molly a paper-mache human heart.

"That's...very realistic, Anthony," Molly said, accepting the gift.

Then Anthony reached into his box again and pulled it a pile of paper held together with staples. He handed it to Sherlock with a nervous look on his face.

It was a book. A little book of pictures entitled: 'The Mystery of the Primrose.' Sherlock opened the book and flipped through the pages, peeking at all of the pictures inside. John could see that he was thoroughly moved by the gift.

"Want me to read it to you?" Anthony asked him.

"Yes. Absolutely."

Anthony hopped onto the couch next to Sherlock and read his book to all of them, showing them the different pictures on every page. It was one of his playtime adventures with Chris in the garden, and John was very impressed with how his son's writing and pictures had improved. He had moved on from stick people, his human figures having actual shapes and facial features. Also, it was a wonderful story, with a great mystery and an exciting finale.

That night, as everyone was going home, Anthony stopped Sherlock at the door.

"Wait!" he yelled, running back to his box of presents. "I have another one...for your brother, Uncle Sherlock." This gift was different than the others, because it was wrapped in red construction paper with a string tied in a knot around it. It was round like a ball. "It's the Earth. And I remember that your brother likes planets, doesn't he?"

Sherlock took the little wrapped orb gently. "Yes, he does." He raised an eyebrow at his Godson. "How do you know that?"

"We met a long time ago," Anthony told him, as if it were obvious. John remembered the phone call when Anthony was five, and couldn't believe his son's memory-that had been two years previous. Sherlock held the present in both of his hands, bouncing it a little. Sherlock always fiddled with things he didn't quite understand.

"I wanted to give it to him myself," Anthony informed him, "but I heard that he was sad."

Sherlock looked to John, who shrugged unknowingly. He hadn't said anything about their conversation on Anthony's seventh birthday months earlier.

"How did you hear that, Anthony?" John asked his son, who stared up at him.

"Chris's mum told him, and he told me."

Of course. Sally Donovan must have overheard, and was probably trying to sell her son some story about Sherlock Holmes coming from a family of drug addicts. The gossip. John could tell by the look on Sherlock's face that he'd made the same induction.

"Will you give it to him for me?" Anthony asked Sherlock, who patted his head.

"As soon as I next see him, I promise."

Sherlock came to visit the very next evening, late again, but this time without an excuse as well as his scarf. John and Mary were tasked with throwing the family Boxing Day dinner, and John had invited Sherlock over for some non-Watson company. While Mary was showing everyone around the house, Sherlock helped John with the dishes, John washing and Sherlock drying. They were chatting about a recent article in the daily newspaper when Anthony wandered by. Sherlock stopped him.

"By the way, Anthony," he called to him, "Mycroft asked me to tell you he liked your gift very much." Anthony grinned and skipped away. John handed Sherlock a plate.

"You saw him last night, then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat as he rubbed it dry with a tea towel. "Yes, thought I'd stop by and deliver Anthony's present."

"And he really liked it?"

Sherlock placed the dish in the cupboard above his head. "I believe so."

"He didn't say?" Sherlock didn't answer. "You've been with him all night," John observed, thanks to the absent scarf: he'd never gone home to get one. "You mean to tell me he didn't say a single thing about such a lovely Christmas present."

Sherlock sighed, defeated. "He doesn't say much anymore, as it were."

John didn't pick up the next dish. He turned around and leaned against the sink, eyeing Sherlock. "He's not okay, is he?" Sherlock responded by taking over for John, starting to rinse the dishes before drying them. He let a few plates stack before trying again. "Sherlock, it's okay to be worried about him."

_"Caring is not an advantage."_

"He's your brother!"

"No," Sherlock deferred, setting down his current plate, "that's not what I meant. Those are Mycroft's words, something he always told me. But now he's..." Sherlock trailed off.

John nodded, still not completely understanding, but realizing that Sherlock needed time to figure out the right way to explain what was going on to him. They finished the dishes in silence. As John closed the full cupboards, he chuckled. "First time for everything, I guess. Never thought I'd see you cleaning a dish." Sherlock looked mildly amused, and then John could hear the beeping of his cellphone. Sherlock pulled it from his pocket and looked down at whatever message he had just received.

"Goodnight, John," he said simply and swiftly made his way to the closet for his coat. John followed him.

"Want company?" John asked as Sherlock let himself out. A car was already waiting for him out front, one that John recognized. "A doctor?"

"No," Sherlock stated, locking the door from the inside as he always did (Sherlock never trusted John to do it himself). Before shutting it completely he added, "Thank Mary for me, for dinner." John watched through the eye hole as Sherlock raced into the black vehicle, and hoped to himself that Mycroft was alright.

Over a week later, John received a text from Sherlock asking him to meet downtown. John got dressed and brought his pistol, not sure whether he was being invited for a case or not. When he arrived at the meeting place he saw that Lestrade was there with some agents from the Yard, and he got his answer. They were in an alleyway, the outline of a dead body on the ground.

"What do I always say, Lestrade?" Sherlock was complaining. "I need to _see _the body! Not some useless chalk!"

"Well, what was I supposed to do," Lestrade retorted, "Leave a dead man laying in the middle of London?"

"Oh please, we're in an alleyway-"

"-Alright, ladies, let's chat nicely, shall we?" John interrupted the fighting men.

"John, mate, haven't seen you in a bit," Lestrade greeted him, shaking his hand.

"S'alright. Have a nice Christmas?"

"Oh yeah, apart from the wife's-"

"-This is all well and good," Sherlock interjected, having crouched down onto the ground to move a few stones around, "but if I could see the photos now?" Lestrade sighed and opened his case file, pulling out some crime scene pictures. He handed them to Sherlock, who stared at them for a minute, pacing around the site, muttering to himself. He gave the photos to John, and Lestrade began to explain everything he knew about the case and the cause of death, which John could confirm from the photos.

"You said he was in his twenties, yeah?" John asked, and Lestrade nodded. He looked at Sherlock. "What's a young guy like that doing to get a shot to the head?"

"It's what he didn't do, John..." And Sherlock began one of his magnificent rants, deciphering the entire case with a series of clues that he listed to John in intricate detail. The men covered a few more locations, asked a few witnesses some questions and, by the end of the day, the case had been solved.

"At least it wasn't the fingernails this time," Lestrade joked as he got into his car, leaving John and Sherlock in front of their familiar pizza place.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked. John nodded, and they went inside, greeted with great enthusiasm by the owner. John ordered his food and Sherlock ordered some water, which was not unusual for the great detective. They spoke about something dull for a few minutes as John waited for his food, and when it arrived Sherlock did the talking, telling John about a case in the newspaper he thought he knew the resolve to, but Lestrade wouldn't let him have it for some reason or another. As John finished his meal, and Sherlock had run out of things to say on the matter, he decided to ask what had been on his mind.

"How's Mycroft doing?"

Sherlock didn't seem at all surprised by the question. "He's coming along." He took a sip of his water, as if assuming John wouldn't prod.

"Must have given you all quite a scare, them sending the car along and everything. What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft has access to the best medical care in Britain. He's absolutely fine."

"He's obviously not fine," John retorted, annoyed by the way Sherlock was avoiding the subject. "Not if he's trying to...trying to-"

"Trying to _what?_"

"Off himself!"

Sherlock's reaction shocked John to the core, as it was something he'd never seen Sherlock do. He scoffed, stood up, and stalked out, leaving John alone at the table. He'd never done that to John before, never just left in the middle of an argument without explanation. John had-many times-but Sherlock always stuck out the fight, usually unaware that they were even happening. John didn't know whether to just let Sherlock go or run after him. He could hear Mary's voice telling him to go for the latter, and he planted a tip on the table as he rushed out of the restaurant. Across the street, Sherlock was hailing a cab. John crossed after him, and Sherlock tried to walk away. John didn't let that stop him, following the man for a full twenty minutes until they reached the door of 221B. Sherlock opened the door and went in, but did not close it after himself. John took that as his invitation.

When they reached their old flat, John gasped. It was spotless. No clutter, no experiments, and Mrs. Hudson had clearly done the dusting recently (despite her constant insistence that she was a landlady, not a housekeeper). While he marvelled at the sight, Sherlock was in the kitchen, but he wasn't making tea. He was shuffling through a neat stack of papers, finally coming across a specific one. He brought it over to John, hissing:

"My brother is _not _trying to _'off himself.'_" He returned to the kitchen, turning his back. John looked at the sheet. It was a medical report, Mycroft's name written at the top of it.

"He had a heart attack," John whispered to himself, embarrassed, as he placed the sheet carefully down on the table. Sherlock returned to collect it, and replaced it in what John assumed was his _Mycroft Stack. _"Sherlock, I..." he didn't finish, seeing that Sherlock had no interest in an apology as he passed John to go to the living room and lift his violin from the table. He took the bow in his other hand and began to play, something John knew he did in order to avoid things, avoid the topics that made him uncomfortable. John went to his old chair and sat down to listen, waiting. Finally, Sherlock stopped playing, and set the instrument down on the shockingly clear table. "It's a lot neater in here since I last saw it," John noted awkwardly. Sherlock sat opposite him.

"I keep the mess in there," he informed John, pointing to his old bedroom. John could see through the cracked open door that most of Sherlock's things were strewn about. "I thought it would be safer, in case Anthony came over."

"Yeah, he's been wanting to for a while. Wants to check out your experiments."

"Well then, that completely defeats the purpose of cleaning the place." John laughed at this, and even Sherlock finally looked pleased. When the laughing stopped, Sherlock spoke sincerely to John. "He's been under a great deal of stress. The government is a mess at the moment, and since he's the one holding it together-"

"-And his dad dying."

"...And that," Sherlock allowed. "He lost so much weight, all at once. He's not doing well," Sherlock finished, and for the first time, John could see the concern written all over his friend's face.

"Is he conscious?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"He was, but..."

"He had another one."

"Boxing Day. We weren't expecting it." Sherlock looked out the window. "I wasn't expecting it."

John watched Sherlock, scrutinizing him. "It's not your fault."

"I was with him the first time. I was convinced it was just a panic attack." Sherlock looked back to John accusingly. "Come now, even you're a bit surprised."

John shrugged, retorting: "You're not a doctor, Sherlock."

"No. But think how much easier he would have been to treat if we'd called one in sooner...all that time we wasted trying to_ deduce_ the problem..."

John had never seen Sherlock like this. He was scattered...not quite so much as the day he called John to fake his death, but certainly along the way. He did not cry, but his face was stained with guilt, and his brow furrowed. Sherlock continued.

"Lestrade called about the case tonight...I had to leave."

"That was probably good for you."

"It's not like he knows, like he sees me there," Sherlock muttered, as if to himself. He seemed to be rationalizing his abandonment. John saw no fault in it.

"I'm sure he's well taken care of, Sherlock," he finally offered. Sherlock said nothing, and John dropped the subject. He looked at the clock. It was late, and he had promised Mary he would be home for bedtime with Anthony. He got up. "Are you going back?" he asked.

"In the morning."

"I'd like to come, if that's alright," John told him, and surprised himself. He and Mycroft were not friends, they never had been. Still, after Sherlock's apparent suicide, Mycroft had done a great deal of work trying to clear his brother's name, himself starting out unaware that his brother was still alive. It hadn't reprieved him for what he had done to Sherlock, or changed it, but it helped, and John was always grateful to Mycroft for watching over him...and now, over his family.

Sherlock merely nodded, and John knew they would work out how to get there the next day. He said a brief, "Goodnight," and let himself out. When he arrived home, he set out his clothes for the morning, expecting that he wouldn't have much time to get ready the next day. His suspicions were confirmed six hours later when he woke up to the beeping of his phone.

_Five minutes. -SH_

John kissed his wife's cheek, changed out of his nightclothes and checked into Anthony's room before speeding to his front door. The black car was there, backdoor already opened for him. John got in next to a silent Sherlock, and they started their journey to whatever secret location at which Mycroft was being treated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Notes: ** I hope you all like this installment! Thanks in advance for reading, and please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts and reviews!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Nine<strong>

They drove for an hour. Finally, the car pulled into a long, rural driveway and parked in front of a farmhouse. By the time they came to a complete stop, Sherlock was outside making his way to the house. John chased after him. It was an old-fashioned building, but after opening the first door, there was another metal one, with a finger-pad as a lock. Sherlock pressed his hand against it and the door and started tapping his foot. The driver, who had finally caught up with them, followed suit and the door swung open. Inside, it was a high-functioning lab.

"Why am I even surprised anymore?" John muttered to himself, following Sherlock down the hallway. After a few turns and sliding doors, they ended up in a florescent lit waiting room. There was a guard inside, dressed in white. Sherlock approached him,

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, simply.

"And you are?"

"His brother."

"Access card?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he reached into his coat, pulling out what John assumed was his ID. The guard led opened another door, and John found himself in a hallway that actually looked like it could be part of a hospital. There were operating rooms and ICUs, blinds blocking the occupants of each. They stopped at room 131. The guard opened the door, and John could see the flickering lights of the medical machinery inside. Sherlock walked in, but when John tried to follow, he was stopped.

"You haven't been authorized yet."

"He's with me," Sherlock informed him, taking a seat at the side of the room. John gave the guard an awkward smile and went to sit next to Sherlock. The door closed, and they were left in the unlit room. From the bit of light streaming in through the blinds, John could see the sleeping outline of Mycroft. He heard the slow beeping of his heart on one of the machines and the slower sound of Mycroft breathing in and out, a tube strung down his vocal tract. Sherlock said nothing, did nothing. He just sat there next to John with his fingers pressed against his lips, watching his brother. John wondered if this is what he had been doing every other day. Just sitting. Waiting.

Suddenly, the beeping became more rapid. John, a doctor, knew that this wasn't unusual for a patient like Mycroft, and that it would probably slow down moments later. Sherlock would know, as well, but when the beeps accelerated Sherlock's hands fell clasped into his lap, and he leaned over them, his jaw clenched and his breathing getting louder for a moment. If John didn't know any better, he might have thought that Sherlock appeared to be praying. As expected, the beeping slowed again, and Sherlock's body relaxed.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour, and then Mycroft stirred. Sherlock leaped into action, turning on the light and pulling his chair closer to Mycroft's side. John stood, but did not approach the bed. Slowly, Mycroft's eyes opened. It took him a minute to notice Sherlock, and when he did, he sighed, almost sounding exhausted. His mouth was opening slightly and closing again, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't. Sherlock spoke to him:

"Awake, are you? You must be sick of sleeping the days away by now." John was taken aback not by Sherlock's words, but by his tone. It was not the cordial way in which he usually spoke to Mycroft. This tone was friendly, calming. There was a second where John could see the beginnings of a smile on Mycroft's face, but he couldn't hold it for long. Sherlock went on talking. "You should see the country-practically falling apart. That woman they have on Defence: you didn't hire her, did you, Mycroft?" Sherlock paused, as if expecting an answer. He did not receive one. "Well, not your best decision, but I'm sure it will all be sorted out as soon as you get back."

Sherlock continued, and Mycroft did nothing but lie there and watch him, no way of responding. He was the thinnest John could have imagined him, his face sunken down to the point where it was just eyes and the Holmes family cheekbones. His fingers were long and bony, and tapped absently as Mycroft listened to Sherlock. John thought he might be trying to reach out to his brother, but Sherlock did not notice. Or, if he did notice, he wouldn't take it. Somehow, John thought that this-Mycroft sitting and listening to Sherlock's tales of the fallen British government system-was their relationship's equivalent to Sherlock taking Mycroft's hand and begging him to get better. It was difficult for John to watch, and every now and then he could hear a break in Sherlock's voice, or Mycroft's brows would furrow, and that was about as much sadness as he could take from the Holmes brothers, who despite their differences, were together at that moment: sitting and chatting.

John let himself out, feeling like an intruder. Sherlock didn't give him any indication that he had noticed. John made his way back to the waiting room he had seen earlier, and sat down, alone. He took out his cellphone, having told Mary he'd let her know when he was returning home that night. A familiar voice stopped him.

"You can't use those in here." It was Anthea. She was sitting opposite him, and John hardly recognized her without a phone in her hands.

"Hello," John replied, still shocked at the sight of her. Anthea looked positively bored. "I thought maybe you'd have some time off for a while."

"No," Anthea said, rolling her eyes-not agreeing with him, but mocking him. "He needs me now more than ever." John waited for her to explain. Without anything else to do, she continued. "Somebody needs to make sure he's still being heard, that his decisions are still being honoured."

"You mean...he's still working?"

"To some degree," Anthea allowed.

"He's awake now, if you wanted to go to him," John informed her. She shrugged.

"I'll wait 'till he's gone," she said, referring to Sherlock. "He always lets me have a few minutes of time with him while he's up. Besides," she added, not looking too concerned, "I don't think he likes watching him fall back asleep."

John hung his head, thinking of Sherlock's worry. If he left his brother while Mycroft was still awake, at least he could pretend that he would stay that way and eventually get up and get back to work. But to watch Mycroft fall back into unconsciousness...it was like losing him again.

"Nice of you to come with him," Anthea told John, her hands twitching. She probably didn't know what to do with them without her smart phone. "I'm surprised he told you."

"So am I," John admitted. It was unlike Sherlock to discuss personal problems-not that he had come close to the subject of _emotion_ regarding his brother. But John could see it, even if Sherlock denied it. He was worried about Mycroft, and if he needed someone to lean on, John would always be there. What else could he do?

"He'll be fine," Anthea informed John, not unlike the way Sherlock had the night before. "He knows he will, everyone does. But bodies can be so...temperamental. You understand, Doctor."

"Yeah." John wondered if any of them really believed that Mycroft was going to pull through. Then he realized: they weren't telling him that Mycroft was going to be okay for his sake at all-they were doing it to see if he would agree. John sat up a little straighter and tried to look more sure of himself. "Place like this, how could he not be," he said to Anthea confidently, and she actually smiled a little.

"You'd be better off telling him that," she said, her eye line passing him. John turned to see Sherlock approaching from down the hall. Anthea stood, gave John a meaningful look, and crossed by the detective, the two of them sharing a nod. Sherlock glanced at John and inclined his head, as if ordering him to follow. John obeyed. Eventually, they were back in the car, heading back into London. John considered his conversation with Anthea.

"Well, he looks alright," he remarked positively. Sherlock looked to him.

"You think?" he asked, and John could see an outline of hope on his friend's face.

"Oh yeah," he assured him. Sherlock's eyes lit up for a second and then he turned away, looking out the window. Perhaps he'd even believed it.

Sherlock didn't drop by much after that, and when he did, it was only for a few minutes at a time. He told John that he had taken a few long-term cases, and that he didn't want him leaving work to go with him. John knew that Sherlock spent the little off-case time he had with Mycroft, but never prodded about him, only briefly asking how the man was doing every time Sherlock left his house. Sherlock's answers were equally brief, but not discouraged. It appeared that Mycroft actually was getting better.

Over four months after the visit to the secret clinic, John heard a knocking sound. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the family was sitting out on their back porch, taking advantage of the incoming spring. The knocking was coming from the front door.

"Come on back!" John yelled, assuming it was Sherlock. But, as he heard the knocker approaching, he knew that it wasn't. There was a tapping sound at each step the stranger took, until eventually he appeared at the gate.

"If you don't mind?" Mycroft gestured to the lock on their side. John thought he'd left it open. He rushed down the three steps of the porch to unlock it, and opened the gate. Mycroft came through, leaning on an umbrella. "April showers," he joked, but as John inspected the umbrella he could clearly see that it was made of hardwood - a cane in disguise. Before John could close the gate behind Mycroft, Anthea rushed through, holding a flat, wrapped gift.

"Come on up," Mary invited Mycroft to the porch, recognizing his voice. She didn't look half as bewildered as John felt, but Mary was always good with company.

"No, thank you. I can't stay long," Mycroft declined, and John thought that it was more because of the task of getting up the short steps than a lack of time. He gave Mycroft a once-over: he had gained a good amount of weight back, his face having rounded out so that he actually looked like himself, but he still had bags under his eyes, giving him a tired appearance despite his pleasantness. He had a shiver in the hand holding the cane and John could see a small incision mark on his other wrist, where an IV had been recently. Before making any more observations, John felt a short presence next to him.

"Who are you?" Anthony had rushed over to meet the strange man.

"Well, hello young Mr. Watson," Mycroft politely greeted the seven-year old. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

Anthony gaped at him. John could tell he was trying to find the resemblance to Sherlock. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," Anthony greeted back, finally, but didn't say anything else. John was surprised that Anthony was not talking their ear off, as he often did when he met someone new. Mycroft made a noise that John recognized: he was trying to conceal a cough.

"As I said," Mycroft started, "I don't have much time. However, I believe I owe _someone_ my thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Why, for the lovely gift you gave me at Christmas. I'm sorry I didn't come by sooner, but I have been..." he glanced at John, "...busy."

"Running the world?" Anthony asked, his eyes lighting up. "That's what Uncle Sherlock said."

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Not quite," he answered. He held his free hand out to Anthea, who placed the gift into it gently. Mycroft held it out to Anthony. "I brought you something as well. It's a book on Astrology. Hopefully you'll have a better understanding of it than your Godfather ever did, and if not...well, you might like the pictures, anyway." Anthony took the gift bashfully. He seemed nervous in the presence of the elder Holmes.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft smiled at him. "Well, go on! The snow is gone, shouldn't you be running about?"

Anthony laughed, and looked at his father. "Dad, I'm going to go put this in my room."

"Alright, go on," John told his son, who ran into the house. Mary had come over next to them.

"Would you like anything? Some tea?" she asked.

"No, thank you Mrs. Watson. I really can't be out for long."

"Is that it? You just stopped to say 'thank you'?" John asked. He had initially suspected some sort of complication, or news about Sherlock. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Why...yes. I recently learned that, without the luxury of time, one may not have the opportunity to show those around them just how appreciated they are."

"Who taught you that?" John asked.

"Incredibly," Mycroft told him, looking a little surprised himself, "Sherlock Holmes."

John let a little laugh escape him. "Glad to see you doing well, Mycroft."

"Yes." He was already turning to leave. "Well, good afternoon, Doctor Watson. Mrs. Watson."

"Mary," John's wife insisted, as she always did. Anthea had already unlocked the gate, and the government official left with his assistant. John took his time to lock the gate behind them. "No surprise there," Mary noted as John came back onto the porch.

"Yeah," John agreed. "They're more alike than they know."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes: **You know how much I love hearing from you guys! This chapter is going to revisit some earlier themes, and rev things up a bit. Keep on enjoying!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Ten<strong>

Anthony still wore the necklace of keys Sherlock had given so many years earlier. On his eighth birthday, Sherlock gave him another key, but this was one that John recognized.

"It's the key to 221B, so it's always open to you."

This was comforting to John, since Anthony's school had been recently relocated, and it was closer to the flat than it was to home. Sherlock knew this, of course, and had given the key to Anthony as much for his parent's sake as his own.

John and Mary were throwing Anthony a party, as they always did, but this would be the first year that their parents wouldn't stay. John was nervous about having unattended children running all over his yard, but Mary assured him that she would keep it under control.

"Why don't you invite Sherlock?" she suggested. "You haven't seen him in ages."

"What? To help?"

"No," Mary laughed, "So you lot can get lost and I can deal with the children."

It was the perfect offer, and John decided to take it before it was gone. He texted Sherlock, who agreed to a day out, and the two men spent their first full day together in months. They didn't do anything in particular, they simply sat together in 221B recounting Sherlock's recent adventures, discussing John's job and catching up on all the time they hadn't seen each other. John learned that Mycroft was back in business, taking care of World politics. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been on multiple cases, each one leading farther and farther from London. John noticed holes in many of the tales, but he did not draw attention to them, knowing that if Sherlock was leaving something out, it was probably for John's own good.

"Don't be a stranger," John said as he left for home.

"Is that an order?" Sherlock asked.

"Absolutely."

And Sherlock complied. He wasn't over much, but when he was he would stay for hours. He hardly talked about his cases-he hardly talked at all, spending most of his time there asking questions about the Watson family. Anthony would often be at Chris' house, so he hardly got to see Sherlock at home, but John knew that his son would often visit 221B in between school hours and waiting for the bus home. Sherlock enjoyed those visits, and the two would spend them looking at his experiments and teaching Anthony important things, like what makes a rabbit glow or how to tell if tea is poisoned. Anthony would usually come home and go immediately to his Safe-Keeping Box to mark down everything he'd learned at Sherlock's, but eventually John found that Anthony had started taking it with him, and even leaving it at the flat. It was almost as if everything he was learning that was important came from Sherlock, and John couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Between Chris and Sherlock, Anthony hardly had time for him anymore, so he decided that for Anthony's ninth birthday he would do something special and big, just him, his son and his wife.

John took a week away from the clinic, and they waited the few extra days after Anthony's birthday so that he was on vacation from school. They were travelling somewhere John remembered going with his parents when he was a little boy: Disney Land.

Anthony was wired when they got to the airport, having never flown before in his life. He was nervous, but as soon as the plane began to take-off, he sat back and enjoyed the ride. As a nine-year old boy, he had convinced himself to act brave, even if he didn't feel it. When they got to Los Angeles they were collected by a shuttle service that took them to their hotel, but there was a scheduling issue, and they were upgraded to have better accomodations. By the next day they were at the Park. John had initially worried that Anthony might be too old for Disney, but as soon as his son saw the rides and the characters he was that same little boy he used to be, and the Watsons had the week of their lives.

It was the last night of the trip, and John was exhausted. Mary had gone to take a shower, and John turned on his phone. He didn't get a signal while he was in the States, but he could still check his e-mails using the wireless internet, something he realized he hadn't done for the entire trip. When he logged into his Inbox, he gasped.

There were well over two dozen of them, sent over the past day. Most of them were from Sherlock, and a few from Mycroft. They all generally said the same thing:

_ Don't go back to the hotel. Reply to this._

John knocked on the bathroom door. Mary came out, having just finished.

"Get dressed," he ordered, tossing her the dress she had been wearing just before. "We're leaving." He opened his luggage, searching for his pistol, until he realized that he hadn't brought it, realizing that he couldn't take a weapon on an air plane. John rushed into the adjacent bedroom, where Anthony was already asleep. He gently shook his son awake.

"Dad...what's wrong?"

"Anthony, we're going to go out for a bit, okay?"

His son was so groggy and confused that he agreed, getting up. Mary had done as she was told, and she was throwing some things into her purse before John led them out of the room. Anthony yelped.

"Dad-my Box! My Safe-Keeping Box!" John sighed, but wouldn't let Anthony go back for the black wooden box. Instead, he grabbed his son's hand and they ran to the elevator. John pressed the button to take them to the lobby, nervous: they were on the thirty-second floor. Halfway down, the elevator stopped, and a man around John's age entered. He gave John and his family a funny look, noting the fact that Anthony was still in his pyjamas and Mary's hair was soaked from the shower. John tried to look oversuspicious, putting his hands into his pockets. He realized that he hadn't yet responded to any of the messages, forgetting that they had all instructed him to. He pulled out his phone again and replied to one of Sherlock's:

_Where should we go?_

John sent the message. He hoped that Sherlock had been waiting for it, or that he would get an alert on his computer upon receiving an e-mail. He refreshed his inbox once-nothing yet-and then closed his phone, realizing that looking at his phone for so long might look bizarre to the stranger next to him...the stranger with his hand in his own pockets...his back pockets...

They had reached the ninth floor. John hit the button for the eighth.

"Mary," he began, taking his wife and son's hands in his own.

"Yeah?" she asked.

The elevator door opened. "Run!" John yelled, and he dragged his family into the hallway, searching for the stairs. The man in the elevator chased after them, and John could hear the cocking of a gun. Would he really shoot them, right there? In a big, Disney hotel?

"Dad, what's going on?" Anthony was asking, but John had no time to answer.

He finally found the door for the stairs. John picked up his son to descend them. It wasn't long before the gunman had come into the room as well, and he was catching up to them. John stopped on the fifth floor and put Anthony down, noticing a fire extinguisher on the wall. "Keep going!" he ordered them, and Mary grabbed Anthony's hand and went through the Level 5 door, giving him a pleading look before letting it close behind her. John broke the glass to the fire extinguisher and took it off the wall, holding it menacingly. "_Who are you?_" he roared at the man, who had stopped a level above him, pointing his gun squarely at John's chest. The man responded in another language, one that John couldn't place. "Are you with Moriarty?" he asked, still only guarded by the heavy red tank he was carrying. "You can't be," John continued, "'cause Moriarty died. A long time ago." The hit man didn't stir and didn't speak. John thought of something Sherlock had told him many years earlier: that Moriarty hadn't died. But he'd had no explanation, no proof. How did Sherlock know? John thought back, trying to remember the Detective's exact words.

_"It appears he wasn't." _Not, 'he's dead', or 'isn't.' It _appeared _that way.

The man slowly marched down the stairs, still pointing his gun, until he was on the landing facing John. Finally, he said something in English:

"There is no Moriarty."

At that moment, every door surrounding Level 5 burst open and a series of armed guards rushed in, taking down John's hitman. A female guard placed her hand on John's shoulder.

"Come on, we're going to the helicopter pad," she told him, and they went back up the stairs until they reached the roof of the high hotel building. Mary and Anthony were already there, standing next to Anthea, whose fingers were typing away on her phone. John wished he could have been more surprised, but he wasn't. He was angry.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, Mary placing a hand on his shoulder to slow him as he stalked over to the group. "Why didn't anyone call us?"

"Didn't know where you were," Anthea responded boredly, not even looking up at him.

"What d'you mean? It's not like we kept it a secret-oh." John realized that, upon arriving in Los Angeles, they found out that their hotel was fully booked. John had forgotten to call anyone to let them know their changed location number. He mentally kicked himself.

Anthea's helicopter took them to the airport, where a special plane was awaiting the Watsons. John half expected to see Mycroft inside, or at least Sherlock, but there was no one to accompany them except for Anthea, who took a seat on her own and left the rest of the plane to the family. Hours later, when they landed, John remembered to take out his phone. There was one new message from Sherlock in his e-mail inbox.

_Anywhere safe._

Then John received a text, his phone service returning.

_ I'll explain at 221B. -SH_

Anthea had Anthony and Mary put into a car, and asked John to step into another.

"Where are you taking them?" he asked, already aware of his destination.

"Why, home, John," she replied.

"Is that safe?"

"It's the safest place for them at the moment."

John wasn't quite sure he liked that logic, but he gave his family a kiss and watched them drive away. He got into the other car with Anthea, and was dropped off in front of Sherlock's flat.

"Our bags?"

"Already at your home." John breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Anthony would be devestated if he had lost his Safe-Keeping Box. He got out of the car and knocked on the door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson answered.

"John, dear, I wasn't expecting you today!" she greeted, trying to pull him into a hug.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson-in a bit of a rush!" John told her and ran up the stairs. Sherlock had already opened the door for him, and was sitting in his usual seat.

"I thought Mycroft might be here."

"He's attending to your new friend." The hitman.

John got right down to business. "Well, you said you'd let me in on everything, so I'd start talking now."

Sherlock looked a little surprised by John's frustration, but complied. "We received intel that your reservations had been changed," he explained, "only we couldn't find any indication of where you had been upgraded to."

"So why didn't you come looking?"

"We _were_ looking."

"And you couldn't call?"

"Oh, we could call you, only your phone couldn't receive."

John could have laughed. The most advanced intelligence agency-possibly in the world-and they couldn't get a cell phone to work outside of its service area. "Who's after us?"

"I was hoping _you'd_ know."

"No," John denied honestly.

Sherlock leaned forward. "The hit man-did he say anything to you? Give you any information at all?"

"You're telling me you have no idea who just tried to shoot up my family?" John could feel a fury beginning to burn in his stomach. He felt guilty for it: whatever had happened, it wasn't Sherlock's fault. But he'd had a very long night, and he was in no mood to wait any longer to find out what was going on. Sherlock seemed to pick up on John's anger.

"John," he soothed, gesturing to the chair opposite him, "Sit." John walked over to the seat and fell down into it. "Now, breath..." It wasn't long before he was feeling more calm. "What did the man say?"

"He told me..." John took a deep breath. "He said: _'There is no Moriarty.'_"

"Anything else?" Sherlock seemed unfazed.

"Something...in another language. Not sure which one."

"German. The man was German."_ 'Like the fairy tales...'_

"All those years ago, when you were gone...did you ever actually _see_ Jim Moriarty again?" John asked, thinking back to the stairwell.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. But there were events – connections - that made me think whoever was after you were working under him." He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's just..." John's mind was jumbled, all of his thoughts mixed up to the point that he couldn't figure out the proper way to word what he wanted to say next. He brought a hand to his forehead. Had he slept on the plane? There was no way to tell. Sherlock watched him for a moment, and then stood. Minutes later, he came back with a cup of tea and placed it into John's hands. He drank it, his hands shaking for the first time in years. Finally, he spoke: "Do you remember St. Bart's?"

Sherlock frowned. "You know I do." The day of The Fall.

John went on. "You said something to me...on the phone. You lied. You said Richard Brook was real, that you came up with Moriarty on your own."

"John," Sherlock rationalized for him, "It was just that: a lie. I didn't invent Moriarty."

"I know. I know," John repeated, and then his hands began to shake worse than ever, and his face grew pale. "But what if someone else did?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Got your attention now, didn't I? Enjoy this chapter, and let me know how you like the story so far! I'd love to hear about everyone's favourite moments and lines.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Eleven<strong>

Sherlock called in one of Mycroft's cars to take John home that night, not trusting him to make it back on his own. He noticed it was not Anthea who was picking him up, but it was late, and he figured that she had to sleep sometime. When the car pulled up in front of John's house, his escort (an Italian man he did not recognize) walked him to his door. "This house is being carefully monitored," Sherlock had informed John before sending him off, and when John looked around he could see two unfamiliar cars parked close by.

"Yours?" he asked Mycroft's guard, pointing out the vehicles.

"You'll be quite safe here, Doctor Watson."

John made an agreeable gesture and went inside. Mary was waiting up for him in their bedroom.

"Well?" she asked, putting down the book she'd been reading. John pulled himself into the bed and put his arm around her, drawing her into his chest. She wrapped her arms around his torso. "What is it, John?"

"Mycroft has people watching us," he told her. At any other time, he would have tried to sound more reassuring, but, as he remembered the conversation he'd just had with Sherlock, he realized that he just didn't have the energy.

* * *

><p>"But what if someone else did?" John had asked. He was shivering, the thought of someone - something - that was above Moriarty making his stomach turn. He ran to Sherlock's bathroom to vomit, his body curled over the toilet. Sherlock was by his side, trying to steady him. As soon as he was finishing heaving, Sherlock wiped his face and helped him back to his seat. "Sorry..." John mumbled, but Sherlock said nothing. He appeared to be deep in thought as he silently collected a wool blanket and drew it over John's shoulders.<p>

Sherlock began to pace after that, one hand on his back and the other over his mouth. John watched him walking back and forth...back and forth...back...and...

"Please stop," John begged, worried he was going to hurl again. Finally, Sherlock sat down again.

"John...you may be correct," he admitted, and John choked on his saliva as he swallowed, half upset by the revelation and the other half shocked that Sherlock was agreeing with his deduction.

"When Anthony was three...God, that was a long time ago...you never told me where you'd gone."

"I was...around."

"Sherlock." John's voice was too sore to yell.

"I was travelling, chasing whispers. Never of Moriarty, but followers of his. Sebastian Moran had his own band of hit men, none of whom were too impressed with the two of us after we caught him." Sherlock brought one hand to his ear, leaning against it as he finally told John the story of his absence. "I ended up in the States, and I found many of them there. Had a few arrested – they were at the airport, on their way to London. Potentially to kill you."

"Thanks for that."

"There was a woman in New Jersey. I was led to her on a tip. She was...an old friend...of Moran's. His American wife."

"Who gave you the tip?"

"Oh, an old friend," Sherlock answered, waving his hand recklessly. "Owed me a favour." If John wasn't so exhausted, he might have chuckled. Sherlock Holmes must have had favours all over the world. He went on: "His ex-wife, she was able to tell me all about Moran's people, the ones involved with Moriarty and the ones that were his own. I was able to get rid of the Moriarty band, as I said, but the others...they found out what she had done."

"They killed her?"

"I did my best...I even had Mycroft call in the American Secret Service. Turned out I was too late." Sherlock's face twitched, showing an instant of remorse, but returned to its previous reminiscence. "I didn't give them any more thought...until just now."

"How come?"

"Moriarty's men were primarily European, even the ones who were living in the States. But...Moran's men, the other ones...they were almost entirely North American. The question is: what does North America care about us? About you, your family?"

"So they are after my family?"

Sherlock arched his head at John. "You knew that already, John."

"Yes," John admitted, "But ignorance is bliss. Why are they back now? After all this time?"

Sherlock looked pensive. "No idea. Well, one idea."

"And that is?"

"When you went to Los Angeles...it's possible that, all of a sudden, you became a threat."

"They thought I was going after them?"

"It would appear so."

John still felt sick. "Sherlock...are we okay?"

"I..." It was taking him too long to answer. "John, I think it's best for you to let me take care of all this. It should blow-over as soon as they see you're not a threat to them."

"You're joking," John muttered. "You think I'm not going to look out for my own family?"

"You are looking out for them, John."

"By acting like an idiot? You want me to pretend like I don't know what's going on?"

"You don't. None of us do."

It was fair. At least this time John was in on his ignorance, and not actually in the dark. But who knew how long that was going to last? When would Sherlock stop telling him the truth?

"And Moriarty? Or...whoever he is? Do you think Richard Brook _was _an actor?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock answered, his eyes lighting up the way they only did when he was particularly baffled in the way that didn't deter him, but excited him. "But I think you're right: there was someone else. Someone...perhaps not controlling him, but certainly...inspiring him."

"And whoever it is...they're after me?"

"No, John." The statement was definite. "They're after me. You just got in the way."

* * *

><p>For the next few months, John tried to live his life as far under the radar as he could. He didn't seek out any more information on the subject of his attack, and he instructed Mary to do the same. Mycroft's people were still watching him. He would occasionally see strange cars driving multiple times around his lane, or parked down the street from the clinic. Eventually, this life became normal, and John no longer felt fearful of a random attack.<p>

Anthony was thoroughly enjoying his summer vacation, inviting Chris Donovan over often. The two were developing an interest in football, and Anthony begged his father to let him join a local children's team. John had played football as a child, and memories of seeing his father cheering him on as he kicked balls into nets were among his fondest. He had no choice but to allow his son the same experience, even though he worried that Anthony would not be as well-protected outside of the house.

The problem was that practice was two days per week, and while John was able to drive his son on Sundays, he worked every Tuesday. It was Mary who broke the news to him: he would have to ask Sally if she'd carpool.

So, twice a week, one of the adults would show up at the others' house to drive the boy's to football practice. Every greeting was followed by some sarcastic remark, it being no secret that Sally and John had hated each other ever since Sherlock fell-both literally and figuratively. Sally had practically led the Anti-Sherlock march, and John found her partially responsible for him losing his best friend for three years of his life. And yet, in some twist of fate, their sons were the best of friends, and they would just have to deal with each other.

Until one day, when Sally said something unforgivable. She was bringing Anthony home, and had walked him to the door, as she always did. Mary was away, and she was the one who usually answered when Anthony was coming back home. But tonight John had to do it.

"Thanks, then," he said, simply, and began to shut the door as soon as Anthony came inside, bounding up the stairs to his bedroom with a "Hey, dad!" But Donovan had another agenda.

"Anthony's been telling us all about your trip to Disney Land," she told him, glaring.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Her arms were crossed. "I don't know how I feel about my child spending so much time in a house sought after by fugitives."

John looked down the driveway at her car. Chris was sitting inside, twirling a football on his index finger. "What makes you think we've got someone after us?" he asked, remembering to act ignorant, but with as much contempt as he could manage.

"Well, criminals always attract the wrong sort of folk. Don't know which side Sherlock Holmes is on: criminal, or just _wrong._"

"Jesus, did you just come up here to-"

"You let him near your son-let him teach your own kid how to be like him! He's just going to grow up to be another psychopath."

"Sherlock's not a-"

"High-functioning sociopath, we know," she cut him off.

John rolled his eyes. "Is this why you came over? To insult him?"

"I came over here to _warn you._"

"Oh, so you came to insult _me._"

"Look, your boy is nice, but you are not doing him any favours by keeping _that man_ around. All he seems to do is put everyone around him danger."

That was the final straw. "Christ, Sally," John hissed, thoroughly annoyed. "Why do I always have to deal with you? Can't your husband drive?"

Sally dropped her arms, and for a second, John thought she looked almost hurt...until she gave him the finger and stomped away. "See you on Sunday," she yelled at him before slamming her car door and driving away. John scoffed, fighting his urge to do the same to his own door.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes: **Well, it's time to fly! It's a big move, so I won't be able to update much for the next little while, but I'll do my best to pop out some new chapters soon! Let me know all your favourite parts of this story while you wait for the next installment.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twelve<strong>

A few weeks later, when soccer season had ended and school was starting up again, John was sitting around the television with his family. Mary was crocheting, John was reading the paper, and Anthony was trying to figure out which briefcase held the most money on a reality game show. At the commercial break, Mary addressed her son:

"I haven't seen Chris in a long time."

Anthony shrugged. "His mum won't let him come over anymore."

Mary glanced at John. He rolled his eyes, and she nodded, understanding. "And what about his dad? Is he trying to keep Chris locked up, too?" John asked, a hint of a grin on his lips, which fell as soon as he saw Mary's reaction to his question.

Anthony didn't blink, keeping his gaze on the show. "Chris hasn't got a dad, Dad."

John had never wanted more intensely to be able to stuff his entire foot in his mouth.

The next time he saw Sally Donovan was at parent-teacher interview night. He had tried to avoid her, not knowing whether or not he should apologize yet, but it was fated that they should end up next to each other in the line for their son's French teacher.

"Good evening," John said in attempt to cut the tension between them. Sally just glared at him. "Funny-for such a big school to have just the one French professor, eh?" She rolled her eyes, unamused. "Look," John started, even though every bone in his body begged him not to, "I didn't know about...I said some dumb things a while back. I'm..." he clenched his teeth, "...sorry."

Sally folded her arms and stared at him for a second, the queue moving forward. "Alright," she said, simply, and then it was her turn to speak with the teacher. John pursed his lips and grinned at the man behind him awkwardly, waiting for his own turn.

Later that night, John was speaking to Anthony's Art teacher, Miss Mullen. It was the only class in which John never worried about his son, knowing that his creativity was boundless and his drawing skill was far ahead of his age. But tonight was...a little different.

"I'm a little worried that Anthony is letting his imagination get the better of him, Doctor Watson."

John raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

She pulled out Anthony's portfolio and drew out a series of drawings. John looked at them, and could have laughed: they were scenes from his stories. Little characters were dressed in deerstalkers and looked through magnifying glasses, solving crimes. The last one, though, included some more familiar faces: Anthony had drawn the elevator. The hit man was clear, his outfit decorated in little clues to show that he was the bad guy in the picture.

"What's wrong with these?" John asked. "I think they're quite good."

"They are good...it's not Anthony's talent that worries me," the teacher explained, "It's...it's like he really believes that these happened. He presents them in front of the class as true."

John tried to look unoffended. "I'm sure he's just being...dramatic."

"I'm not so sure, Doctor Watson." She leaned over the desk, drawing closer to him. "The other kids...has Anthony told you about any of his friends?"

John searched through his mind. The only people Anthony ever talked about were Sherlock and Chris. Sherlock was often completely absent, and neither boy had gone to the other's home since school had started up again. "What d'you mean? Why?"

Miss Mullen frowned. "Anthony seems to be having trouble...relating...to the other children. He doesn't have any friends in his class."

John scoffed-that wasn't true. Anthony had all sorts of friends, John had thrown his son enough birthday parties to know that. But then...that was just it. John and Mary had thrown the parties, inviting the kids themselves, kids of people they knew. Left on his own, would Anthony have any friends to invite?

"And what about Chris Donovan?" he asked her.

"Chris is a year above your son."

"I know, but...don't they play together? At breaks?"

"Doctor Watson," Miss Mullen said, leaning back, "It's my job as a teacher at this school to tell you that...that Chris Donovan and his friends aren't the best choice of kids for Anthony to be spending his time around."

"Why not? You think they're too old?"

"No..." she clasped her hands together, tightly. "Anthony is being bullied."

When John returned home that night, he was furious. Furious at Sally Donovan for training her child to be as much of a sod as she was. Furious at the kids at Anthony's school for treating him like he was mad, just because he was telling the truth. Most of all, though, he as furious at himself: for not noticing anything sooner.

He went to the kitchen, where Mary was on the phone. "Molly, you'll have to forgive me. I've got to go?" she said after giving him one look. She hung up. "What did his teachers say?"

John explained everything. Anthony had been telling the children at the school about his week in Disney Land, and since John had never told him to pretend that their attack never happened, the nine-year old boy obviously bragged about his adventure. Thinking him odd, the other kids had taken to mocking him and avoiding him, not letting him play with them at school.

"Why didn't he tell us?" Mary asked, and John shrugged.

"I wish I knew."

The next morning, John sat with his son for breakfast. Anthony was eating his Fruit Loops dry, a habit he had picked up from Sherlock, who never had milk in his flat. As soon as he finished, John saw his chance:

"You haven't told me about school much lately." Start with something simple, an idea.

"I have a science test today. I think I'm going to get a really good mark."

"That's good." John tried to think of how he could ease into the topic of his son's abuse. He settled on: "How's Chris been? Your mum and I miss seeing him around the house."

Anthony bit his lip, the boy too young to know how to lie convincingly. "Oh, he's great. He's been bringing his football to school, and all the kids play against each other all recess."

"Do you play with them?" John already knew the answer.

Anthony was shaking his head. "No...I don't like sports, much."

John sighed. "Anthony, you know...if there's something going on, your mum and I want you to tell us."

"There's nothing wrong, Dad." Anthony swallowed after he spoke. "Can I go now? I've got to catch my bus."

"Fine," John answered, trying not to sound too worried. "Anthony, wait..." Guilt washed over him as he spoke: "It's...it's probably not a good idea to tell too many people about Los Angeles. It's sort of a secret."

Anthony's face flushed pink. "Alright Dad," he agreed, and ran up to his bedroom.

When Mary came into the kitchen a few minutes later, John shook his head at her. What kind of father would make a liar out of his own son? That evening, as soon as he got home from work, he rang up Sergeant Donovan, roaring into the phone:

"This is all your fault! My kid had one friend-_one! _ And you had to turn him against him." Mary was next to John, trying to calm him down. "What have you got against us? What did we ever do to you that you'd take it out on a little boy?"

On the other line, Donovan didn't seem too affected. "I'm just keeping my _little boy _out of trouble. If that means Anthony has to make some new friends...and anyhow, boys do these things to each other. It's just how they are."

John hung up on her. Months passed, and things didn't seem to be getting any better for Anthony, who was spending more time alone in his room than ever. He slept in late on weekends, something he never used to do, and he went to bed extra early on school nights. Finally, it was the day before Christmas break was starting, and for the first time in a while Anthony seemed excited. It was bittersweet, of course, since he was probably just excited to be getting away from the other students, but at least he seemed happy.

John was at work when he got the call. He looked down at his cell phone. Sherlock. Sherlock never _called._

"Tell me you've got him," John begged, praying that Anthony was at 221B.

_"No, John, I haven't. It's not what you think. It's...far more bizarre."_

John left work immediately and hailed a cab. On his way to the flat he called Mary. "Is Anthony home yet?" he asked her. Affirmative. "Bring him to Sherlock's," he ordered her, still not having received confirmation from Sherlock that they were not in danger of another attach. As soon as Mrs. Hudson opened the door of 221B, though, he realized that the only _danger _he would have to face was Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Chris Donovan was in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, sitting awkwardly at the head of the table. Sherlock was leaning against the fridge, and John thought this was the first time he had ever seen the man looking so baffled.

"Well, this'll help things along," John said sarcastically as soon as Sherlock noticed him. "She loves you already, just think how _thrilled _Sally's going to be when she finds out you've kidnapped her son."

Sherlock threw his arms up. "He just-came here! He showed up! What am I supposed to do with him?" John couldn't help but laugh, the situation was too ridiculous.

"S'alright," he assured the overwhelmed detective as he went to the table, sitting adjacent to Chris. The boy's dark face was flushed, and his eyes were red, as if he'd been crying recently. "I'm calling your mum in a minute," he informed him, "But first you're going to tell me why you're here."

"I-I just..." Chris was completely flustered. Mrs. Hudson leaned over John to him.

"Now, you tell the nice Doctor what you're doing here, young man, and he'll see if he can get you out of trouble for skipping your bus home."

Chris seemed a little calmer for Mrs. Hudson's presence. A woman's presence. She sat down next to John as Chris answered: "I couldn't go to your house, I'm not allowed...but...Anthony won't even talk to me anymore."

"I thought it was you who wouldn't talk to him," John said softly, trying not to sound too menacing.

"It was!" Chris admitted with a little too much gusto. "But...then I sort of missed him...but he was really mad at me. He won't listen to me, but I know he listens to him-" Chris pointed at Sherlock, "And I thought he could convince him to accept my apology."

"Apology for what?" Sherlock jumped in, accusingly. John put a hand out in front of him, a reminder that it probably wasn't the best idea to yell at Sally Donovan's kid.

Chris sighed cartoonishly, the way only a ten-year old boy could: "I didn't know what else to do! All the kids in my class were saying that he was bonkers, or dangerous. They said he was really telling stories about all the bad things he wanted to do to people, that he was the villian. I didn't want them after me, too!"

John clenched his jaw. He couldn't help feeling sorry for the boy, who became a bully for fear that he was going to be bullied. It all made sense. "Well, I'm sorry to hear all that," he told him, honestly, "but we've really got to get you home before your mum comes after me."

"She doesn't like you very much," Chris decided to tell Sherlock, out of the blue. "But I think you're cool. At least, Anthony says you are. He says you're the real detective, like in our stories."

Sherlock just made a face, as if he was still wondering why some random friend of Anthony's was even talking to him. With all that deductive reasoning, Sherlock still hadn't figured out that Chris had gone to him because he knew how important he was to Anthony, and thought he was his best bet at getting his friend back.

John's phone started ringing again. "Oh, good Lord," he mumbled, answering it.

_"It's just like I said! Something bad's gonna go on, and my kid's gonna get into the middle of it!" _Sally sounded like she was in her car, her yelling voice echoing through the phone.

"It's alright, Chris is fine," John informed her. Chris had thrown his head into his arms onto the table. Mrs. Hudson gave a little, _"Oh dear!"_

_ "Prove it!"_ Sally kept on, John told her to come to the flat. _"What the hell is he doing there?"_ she demanded, but John was already passing the phone over to Chris.

"Mum..." he tried to explain, but from the sounds coming through the mobile, Sally wasn't prepared to listen to a word he said. Eventually he hung up. "She'll be here in a couple minutes," he told them, giving the phone back to John. Then the door burst open.

"Mary!" Mrs. Hudson shrieked as John's wife came into view, having rushed in with such ferocity that the door had slammed into the wall of the foyer, taking down a photograph next to it. Mary took one look around the room, Anthony in tow, and went beet red.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," she apologized in a whisper. "I thought..." Mrs. Hudson shrugged, used to her building being torn apart.

It was Anthony who spoke next. "What are you doing here?" he asked Chris, and John didn't think he'd ever seen his son so angry. Of course, he would be. Sherlock's flat was his place, and he didn't want to share it with someone who had been cruel to him.

Chris stood up and went behind his seat, as if protecting himself. "Anthony-Anthony I'm so sorry!" he cried, looking a bit fearful.

"Your mum's going to be so mad when she finds out about this." Anthony put his hands on his hips, and had it not been for the fact that he was only nine-years old, he might have actually looked a little menacing.

"S'alright," Chris replied, "If you'll just give me a chance."

Neither boy said anything else. They just stared at each other, Chris's chest heaving while Anthony's fists were clenched. Sherlock's head was racing back and forth between the two them, his eyes wide. He gave John a look as if to ask, _'The hell?' _John couldn't help but agree: what were they deciding, what were they discussing without a single word being spoken?

Chris was the first to give in. "I'm...I'm sorry." He hung his head.

A room of eyes fell upon Anthony, whose hands had loosened. He bit his tongue between his front teeth, as if making a very important decision. Finally:

"Alright. Want to see Uncle Sherlock's science room?"

Before Chris could so much as grin, the front door hit the wall once again. Sally Donovan marched straight into the kitchen, ignoring all of them but one: a particular consulting detective.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Notes: ** Well, I'm all settled into Oz, and I found some time to write! Please send me a review telling me about your favourite parts of this story!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirteen<strong>

Sally Donovan burst through the room with an anger John had never seen from her before. Her first order of business? Attacking Sherlock Holmes. She stalked upto him and pressed him against the fridge. Sherlock didn't appear to be injured by the action, but he did appear surprised...John also noticed that he looked _interested._

"Am I to ask why exactly I've been placed in this position, Sergeant Donovan?"

Sally rolled her eyes and took her hands off of Sherlock, turning onto her son.

"What do you think you're doing? You can't just waddle off whenever you'd like!" Chris began to sink back down into his seat, but Sally grabbed his hand. "We're going home. _Now._" Chris followed his mother obediently, but as they were leaving, Anthony spoke up:

"I invited him over!"

Sally stopped, and rolled her eyes. "You don't have to lie for him, Anthony."

Anthony's jaw was tight as he tried to come up with a suitable lie. "We were all coming to visit Mrs. Hudson, and I though Chris could come over too and see the flat. We were going to call you..." Anthony trailed off. By the look on Sally's face, she could clearly tell that he was lying. She looked down at her own son.

"Why don't you go somewhere with Anthony for a minute. I think I'd like a word with his father." Chris ran from his mother as fast as he could, straight to Anthony.

"Uncle Sherlock, can I show Anthony your science room? We won't touch anything."

Sherlock still had the same bewildered look on his face. "Be sure you don't," he replied, allowing them to run up the stairs to his flat. "Would someone like to fill me in?" Sherlock asked around the room.

"You mean you don't know?" Sally asked.

"I can assure you: no."

Sally sighed, and turned on John. "What are you all doing here."

Mrs. Hudson came forward. "The boy told you. They're visiting me."

"Oh, please. Don't even both trying that. What are you doing with my kid? Putting him into all the trouble you people cause?"

"For your information," John told her, crossing his arms, "Your _kid _came over here to apologize to my son. With no prompting from you, I can see."

"Apologize for what?" Sherlock asked the room.

"Chris and his friends were being cruel to Anthony. So were...all the kids in his class."

Sherlock stood up straight, and John thought he looked furious. "No one tells me anything!" he cried. "That boy's been bullying Anthony?" He glanced up the stairs. For a second, John thought he might stomp on up and drag Chris back down, kicking him out of 221B.

"Yeah, but _Chris _apologized. He only did it 'cause Sally here told him they couldn't play together anymore, or whatever you said to him."

"I thought they were good friends?"

"They are. Best friends. Chris was Anthony's only friend, and his mum told him to avoid him."

Sally stuck up for herself. "I didn't tell him to do anything! I just told him the truth-you lot are dangerous!"

"Dangerous?" Mary was offended.

"Yeah, dangerous." Sally paced up to Mary, and both women folded their arms identically at one another. "Your husband and his mate are going to get us all killed if we hang around. If I were you, I'd grab my kid and go."

Mary looked like she wanted to slap Sally Donovan in the face. John felt a touch of pride for his wife. "And if I were you," she started, "I'd start minding my own business and getting out of this house. Now."

Sally glared at Mary, but back off towards the stairs. "Oy! Chris!" she yelled, "Get down here!" There was an affirmative answer from Chris as he bounded down the stairs, Anthony fast behind him. It was quite clear that the two boys had already gotten over whatever tension had been between them.

"Mum, could I go over to Anthony's tomorrow? We want to build a snow fort!"

Sally shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea. Come on."

She had turned to go, but again, it was Anthony who stopped her. "Please, Ms. Donovan!" He ran in front of her, as if he was trying to block the exit. "We'll be really careful! And besides, we have all sorts of cameras and stuff all over the place, so nobody bad can get to us!"

Chris turned to his friend, exclaiming, "It's true-I knew it was true! So you really did all those things on summer break?"

Anthony broke eye contact with Sally to tell his friend, "Oh yeah! It was so scary, but Uncle Sherlock's brother saved us!"

Sally looked mortified, but unsurprised. "Look, Anthony, I'm sorry, but if you need that kind of protecting, I don't think I want Chris to be over there with you."

"Then can Anthony come over to our place?" Chris asked his mother. Sally exhaled through her nose, annoyed.

"Well, I won't be picking him up."

"S'alright," Mary chimed in, toughly, "I can drive him over."

Sally rolled her eyes, but still agreed. "Fine. Can we go now? Who knows who might be trying to blow up this place."

"They'd have to get through me, first," Mrs. Hudson informed Sally, opening the front door for her. She began to walk out, a hand pressing on her son's back. He escaped her grip and ran back to Anthony, to her annoyance.

"So, you'll come over? Tomorrow?"

Anthony smiled at his friend. "Yeah, for sure." Chris leaped a little, excited, and followed his mother out. Mrs. Hudson calmly closed the door behind them, probably wanting to slam it on Sally Donovan, but not on her son. As soon as the door closed, Sherlock sat down at the table. The whole situation had come entirely out of the blue for him. Mary walked over to John.

"So...that was why you called us here? To put us in Sally Donovan's warpath?"

John couldn't keep from laughing. "No," he finally said. "Sherlock called, it sounded like an emergency."

"I can assure you, it felt like one," Sherlock informed them. "It's not every day I have a strange child showing up on my doorstep."

"Technically," Mrs. Hudson said, "It's my doorstep."

They all chuckled, and Sherlock looked at Anthony. "The other children are mean to you?"

Anthony looked embarrassed. John had a feeling that of all the people Anthony had to tell he was being bullied, Sherlock might be the most difficult. "They...they didn't believe me. I...I told them all about this summer. I shouldn't have."

"Oh, so they're jealous." Sherlock nodded understandingly, and John was a little surprised by how he was responding. "It's alright, as long as you know it happened. After all, it was very exciting. I mean, I wouldn't suggest you make a habit out of danger..." John scoffed quietly, "...but don't be ashamed of it. They don't know what they're missing."

John was touched by Sherlock's words, and Anthony appeared to be as well. Mrs. Hudson spoke:

"All long as you're all here, who's up for some food?"

They all had dinner at Mrs. Hudson's house that night, and afterwards, John stayed with Sherlock as Mary took Anthony home. They sat upstairs in their old flat, drinking some wine Sherlock had been given as an early Christmas present from Molly. After a long discussion about Lestrade's newest hire, who John hadn't met yet, Sherlock changed the subject.

"You didn't tell me he was being bullied."

John shrugged. "I just found out myself."

"Hm..." Sherlock fell into his thoughts. John watched him until he spoke again. "It seems odd, doesn't it? Anthony seems like he would be such a popular boy."

"You just say that 'cause he's brilliant," John told him, a laugh in his tone.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "That's true." He took a sip of wine. "He's unlike me." John didn't understand the statement, so Sherlock began to clarify for him. "I was tortured quite frequently in school. I'm just shocked that he is, being more like you."

"You don't think I got bullied?"

"Did you?"

John thought back to his childhood. He hadn't been amongst the popular children, being quite booksmart, but he had been a member of the student council in his later school years, and had a number of friends-few of whom he still kept in touch with. "No," he finally decided, "I suppose not." John suddenly felt concerned. "You were?"

Sherlock scoffed and then sighed. "Oh, yes. But it was nothing I couldn't rationalize." John's lips turned upward. As if Sherlock Holmes would let some school bullies bother him, at any age.

"That boy," Sherlock began to ask, "Chris: you like him?"

John nodded. "I do. He caused a little trouble, and wasn't too nice to Anthony this term, but I think...I don't know. I just like that he took it upon himself to apologize. Besides," John added, "he's the only friend my boy's got."

Sherlock had no reaction. "What did Chris to do Anthony, if I may ask?"

John shrugged. "He didn't really _do _anything. He just avoided him. Wouldn't talk to him or play with him...he _abandoned_ him."

"It was generous of Anthony to forgive him."

"Well, we all do dumb things for our mates."

Sherlock's brow furrowed for a second, but he said nothing, and eventually his look turned into a half-smile, which looked a little forced to John.

John was exhausted when he got home that night, and went directly to bed. Mary woke up as he crawled under the covers, and greeted him.

"Have a nice night?" she asked.

"Yeah," John answered, still thinking about how strange Sherlock had seemed towards the end of the night.

"Everything alright?"

"I think he must've gotten a little tipsy, or something," John told his wife. "He seemed...I don't know. Melancholy."

"What do you mean?"

John explained, "Well, we were chatting about the boys, and I...well, we were saying how nice Anthony was about Chris' apology. He didn't have to be."

Mary sat up, prompting John to do so as well. "Sweetheart," she began, with a term she only used for John when she had some sort of lecture for him, "All this...was it really about Anthony?"

"What? Of course!"

"I mean...I know it it. Mostly. But...do you think that...maybe Chris leaving Anthony reminds you of...well, you know."

John hadn't considered that. Was he projecting Sherlock's abandonment over Chris'? "D'you think?"

"Well, you kept saying that Anthony only had the one friend. You...you only had one friend. And you lost him."

"I'm not still mad at Sherlock."

"I didn't say that," Mary assured him, "But I don't think you've totally forgiven him. And if you have, you still think he's going to do it again. It's normal to be a little resentful, John, he made you think he was dead for three years."

John sighed, laying back down. "I have more than one friend," he told her, not knowing how to respond to what she had just said.

"Not like him, though. He was your life, and he left. Don't you think you might be more worried about Anthony because you know what it's like to lose someone so important to you?"

John considered it. "I guess so, yeah. But it's alright. They're mates again."

"That's right. Anthony will be fine-just like you were, John." She also laid back down, curling up next to him. John held his wife in his arms for a minute before saying:

"By the way: you're wrong. I _do _have more than one friend."

"But only one best friend."

"Wrong again," he said, squeezing her arm gently. "Two." He kissed Mary on the cheek and they fell asleep together.

The next day, Sherlock called John onto a case, and they spent the entire night searching for clues. John wasn't always the best at deduction, but Sherlock had often told him that while he wasn't the most brilliant man in the world, he had the ability to inspire brilliance in others. That was their whole relationship in a nutshell: John brought out the best in Sherlock, and what Sherlock didn't realize was that he brought out the best in John as well. John thought about Anthony and Chris: was their friendship as strong as his and Sherlock's. There was the way they communicated with each other, neither having to say a word. That was the same with him and Sherlock. So much could be said in looks or in actions, and while they never spent much time discussing their strong bond, it was there, and it was unbreakable. No matter what happened between them, all was forgiven, because, as John had realized, forgiveness was a more powerful feeling than anger was, and no crime was worth so much resentment between two people who cared about each other so much.

And, by the end of the case, Sherlock knew that too.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes: **I wonder what time of day everyone is reading this? Anyhow, lemme know what you think, and as always, I love hearing about your favourite parts! It really means a lot to me after spending so much time writing. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Fourteen<strong>

Anthony went over to the Donovan house to play a few nights every week. At first, John was concerned that he was spending so much time outside of Mycroft's radar, until Sherlock confidentially let him know that there was a specific agent instructed to follow Anthony at all times, wherever he went. "Don't tell Sally," Sherlock had said, scoffing into his tea.

At the next parent-teacher conference night, John had made a point of checking in with Anthony's art teacher, and she told him that he seemed to be doing much better. His pieces were no longer the detective fare they had been the term before, but they still told lovely stories. John knew that Chris had taken Anthony under his wing, and that he had stopped caring about what the other boys thought of him. They spent a great deal of time together at school, and Anthony seemed happy once again. Perhaps he still only had the one friend, but that was alright, as long as it was a very good friend.

John hadn't expected Mary to react so strongly so Sally Donovan's harsh words, though. Mary would drive Anthony over to Chris', and every time she returned home she would have some long-winded complaint about how 'awful that Sally Donovan' was. John would never admit it, but he loved seeing Mary angry, as she so seldom had the chance to be, and was usually quite chipper. It was entertaining to watch her so impassioned.

Eventually, it came time for another one of Anthony's birthdays. Mary had begged their son to have some sort of party, and try inviting some kids from his class over for the day. He had agreed, begrudgingly, and a number of kids from his class showed up. Still, they didn't interact much with Anthony, who had actually taken a liking to some acquaintances of Chris', Chris having met them after leaving his former tribe. Chris, being unable to attend the party due to his mother's rules, had sent his new friends in his place. There were three of them, one girl and two boys. They all seemed quite polite, and John couldn't help but notice how nervous Anthony seemed when he opened his birthday present from Christine, the girl in the group.

At the end of the day, Sherlock came to the house to give Anthony his gift: it was a silver key chain, with a little charm of a skull on it. "In case you thought the necklace wasn't grown-up enough."

Anthony thanked his Godfather for the gift, but John never saw him use the key chain, still wearing his necklace of keys every day. Perhaps he'd use it when he was older.

And then Anthony was ten-years old. The next year of his life seemed absurdly normal for a boy his age. Anthony didn't go to 221B after school very often anymore, and Sherlock didn't come over to visit much, spending most of his times on various cases, many of which he would invite John along on. John thought that he probably saw more of Sherlock than Anthony did, which was new, but Anthony spent so much time with Chris and their new friends that John thought it didn't bother his son to not see his Godfather very often.

And John did like Anthony's new friends. They were all a year above him in school. Mary told John that it spoke well of Anthony that he spent his time with older children. It meant he was more highly developed than the kids in his class. Sherlock hadn't hesitated to agree with her. There was the girl, Christine, a sweet little blonde thing that wore a dress every time John saw her. There was one boy, Nathaniel, who had just moved to London from Dublin and the other boy, Adam, who was always the first to suggest some sort of sport to play at. Since Chris wasn't allowed at the Watson house, John rarely saw Anthony's friends, but he would give his son rides to their homes multiple nights per week.

One night, around Christmastime, Anthony approached his father to ask why Sherlock always came to their house alone. "Does he have a girlfriend?" he asked, amusing John.

"No, he doesn't."

"Why not?"

John considered his answer carefully, not quite knowing how to explain Sherlock's assumed asexuality to his son. He settled on: "Uncle Sherlock is married to his work."

Anthony raised an eyebrow, but nodded and left. Off to Chris' house, no doubt.

The year came and went without a hitch. There was no sign of Moran or his fellow fiends, and John had noticed the surveillance upon his family had lessened significantly. For Anthony's eleventh birthday, he only invited his four real friends out for dinner away from the house, so Chris could attend. Sherlock hadn't come over that day, but after the kids went home, John felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He looked at his latest message:

_ Bring Anthony to the flat. -SH_

Anthony was very excited to visit his uncle. He hadn't been to 221B in ages. They drove up to the building, and Anthony raced inside, John following him. When they reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door. They went into the flat, which was still shockingly spotless, for Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock guided Anthony towards John's old bedroom. When he opened the door, the room that had once been a mess had turned into a very tidy science lab.

"I thought you might like to come over and help me with some experiments, so I made space for both of us. I also got you this." Sherlock directed their attention to telescope he had set up by the window. Anthony gasped in amazement.

"Is that...for me?" he asked, his mouth hanging open.

"I thought you could try teaching me a few things, while you're here." Sherlock went over to a table with a microscope and bent down under it. "By the way," he said, pulling out a black wooden box, "you left this here some time ago. I thought you might like to use it again." Anthony hadn't touched his Safe-Keeping Box since he'd last left it at Sherlock's flat, probably months earlier. Anthony grinned, taking the box in his arms.

"Thanks, Uncle."

The eleven-year old started going to 221B again, and once school started he would go directly afterwards, just as he used to while he waited for the bus. Sherlock didn't allow him to bring all of his friends in, but after a few weeks of begging he would occasionally allow Chris Donovan into his house, providing that he was positive Sally wouldn't find out. It was their great ruse: the boys would tell Sally that they were going to the library or the park, but they would actually go to Sherlock's flat and listen to his detective tales as he showed them different experiments. John knew that Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of the arrangement, and that he would have preferred to just have Anthony. But sometimes, when Chris went home, Anthony would stay at the flat until nighttime to gaze at the stars through his new telescope. He'd bring home his Safe-Keeping box on those night, surely to draw up whatever he had seen. Sherlock was learning, too.

He and John were outside on John's patio one night at the end of the summer, and Sherlock looked up at the sky.

"Saturn is bright tonight," he mumbled. John did a double-take.

"That's Saturn?"

"Why, yes."

John simply grinned. The man who originally didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the Sun was pointing out the planets to him. He couldn't help feeling a little bit proud.

John and Sherlock were thriving with cases, and John was occasionally reminded of the good old days. A new case every week, sometimes even an adventure to go along with it. They weren't as dangerous as the ones they'd been on before, but John suspected that was because Sherlock was still keeping those from him, keeping him safe. John didn't mind-it wasn't like he was as young as he used to be, which he pointed out on his own birthday. He was turning forty-five, and Lestrade had insisted that he go out for drinks, despite his not wanting to do anything of the sort.

"God, I'm old," John muttered over his pint. He could hear Sherlock chuckle softly next to him, having joined John and Lestrade in the outing. It was just the three of them, for which John was grateful. "I'm glad you're laughing," he said to Sherlock, "You've got another couple years."

"At least you're not fifty," Lestrade piped in, pointing to himself.

"Yeah, but your kids are old. My kid's...my kid...he's...a kid..." John could feel the alcohol churning in his system, making speaking difficult. Sherlock placed a supportive hand on his back, probably less to conform him than to keep him from falling off of his bar stool.

"You're not over the hill just yet, my dear Watson," he said kindly. "And even if you were, who else could blog my adventures quite like you?"

It was true. John had restarted the blog that year, writing up old and new adventures for the public to enjoy. It explained the recent plethora of cases that Sherlock was being sent on, him having more clients now that everyone was fully aware that he was active again. Of course, the public knew that Sherlock was alive-it had been all of the tabloids eleven years earlier, and sometimes cases solved by Sherlock Holmes would still make their way into the news, but people weren't aware that he was still consulting with clients. John enjoyed reading the comments on the blog, most of which were extremely supportive of its return. He also liked being able to share the stories with Anthony, who had taken to drawing up images from them. John had even posted a few of Anthony's drawings on the blog, some of them quite accurate to the details. He had thought Sherlock would hate the pictures, but Sherlock thought it added flare to the pieces. Had they been drawn by anyone other than Anthony, though, John knew that Sherlock would not have allowed it.

John spent that night in 221B, and when he returned home the next morning his wife had prepared a lovely birthday breakfast for him. The Watsons sat around the table and ate together, celebrating the man of the family. John couldn't have had a happier life.

Anthony's friends came over less often after Anthony started spending more time at the flat, but John still got to see them occasionally. John couldn't help but notice Anthony's nerves every time he spoke to the little Christine, and it was Mary who would insist that Anthony bring her drinks and snacks. The four children, without Chris, would not play at the detective fare John was so fond of, but they would play a number of sports, which Anthony seemed to enjoy almost as much. Then, one night in the winter, John got a call from Sally Donovan. She was extremely curt, but she had a favour.

"Normally I wouldn't even think of doing this...but I haven't got anyone else," she told him, having asked him to babysit her son for the night and the next day.

"And where are you going that you need a sitter at this time of night?"

Sally retorted that she had to work. John agreed to take in Chris, only pretending to act hard-done by the whole situation. Sally drove her son over that night, and when she was at the door, her eyes were darting around at every sight.

"What do you think is going to get you?" John asked her, trying not to laugh.

"Aren't you lot sitting under the eye of snipers?"

Then John did laugh. "No, as I've already explained. And anyway, we are very well protected." The statement wasn't as true as it had been before, John rarely seeing any of Mycroft's agents around, but if it eased Sally's mind and gave Anthony some company, it was worth the untruth. Sally begrudgingly left.

That same winter night, there was a knock on the door. John and Mary had been in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Anthony and Chris were playing in the snow in the backyard, no doubt performing some sort of detective story in their heads that they could write down into one of Anthony's stories later on.

"Sally back already?" Mary jested as she went to answer the door, and John remained facing the sink, washing the dishes. He could hear another female voice, and while he originally assumed that it _was, _in fact, Sally, he soon learned that it wasn't. Not even close. The water was on, so John couldn't hear what the women were saying to each other. Was it Molly? Mrs. Hudson? Hell, was it Anthea? John turned off the tap to listen in, and when he did he heard his wife saying, "Please, as if anything surprises me anymore." She sounded nervous. John worried as he heard her invite the strange woman in, and half opened the drawer next to him where some of the sharper knives were kept. As soon as he saw who Mary was bringing into the house, he shut the drawer and took a much sharper knife from the cutting block. They were clearly in more danger than he had initially thought, and his absolutely shock was overcome by his terror.

"Moran?" was all he asked of Miss Irene Adler, who answered with a sly grin on her face:

"We'll worry about that in a few hours. Aren't you going to offer me some tea?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Notes:** Watching Sherlock in the background as I write this. As always, thanks for all of the favourites and story alerts, and please send me a review telling me about your favourite bits and anything else's you'd like to tell me!

**Anthony, Chapter Fifteen**

John didn't need to say before Mary was calling the boys in from outside.

"Chris, we have company...I'm so sorry, but could you call your mum?"

"Aw, mum! Can't we just stay outside? We won't bother you," Anthony complained.

"It's going to be dark soon...why don't you come over tomorrow, alright Chris?"

They felt bad kicking him out of their house, but it was for the best, especially if he wasn't going to be safe there. Irene had already taken a seat at the head of the kitchen table, and John was still holding the knife he had picked up upon seeing her. It didn't take long before Sally had made it, and she picked up Chris without a word, neither assuming that anything suspicious was the real reason for him leaving. After letting them out, Mary returned to the kitchen and began making Irene the cup of tea she had asked for. Anthony was at the window, waving goodbye to his friend. Irene called him over.

"Let me get a good look at you," she insisted. Anthony approached her slowly.

"Do you know my dad?" he asked. Irene grinned.

"Oh yes, we're old friends." Mary finished Irene's tea and brought it to the table, sitting adjacent to her. Her hands were shaking, clearly thinking that they were in grave danger, but Irene was entirely calm. "Have you thought about putting that away?" she asked John, pointing to the knife. John raised an eyebrow.

"Won't I be needing it?"

"It wouldn't do you any good." Irene blew into her teacup before taking a sip. It was the same Irene Adler as before, only she had changed her appearance. Her hair, once dark, was a light blonde, and cut into a sharply angled bob. Her usual red lipstick was replaced with a bright pink, and the rest of her make-up was very modest. Her clothes were the same-she wore a blue dress, to the knee, and had very little skin showing. Her appearance was new, but there was nothing she could have done about that glint in her eye, the one that reminded him so much of Sherlock. She placed a hand on Anthony's cheek, and John thought for a moment that he might make use of the weapon in his hand.

"You look so much like your mother," she sang, caressing the young boy's face. Anthony didn't seem uncomfortable at the touch, but he did have a confused look on his face. Irene pulled on one of his curls. "I used to have lovely curly hair like yours, when I was little."

"Sorry to interrupt," Mary popped into the conversation, "but shouldn't we be going somewhere?" She wasn't saying anything too telling, worried about Anthony.

"Please, as if anyone would come here, Mycroft's eyes all over the place."

Finally, John put down the knife. "Then how did you get in?"

Irene sighed. "Oh, I think he was expecting me."

John couldn't handle his confusion anymore. "Miss Adler, you're not supposed to be...exactly..." he couldn't bring himself to state the obvious.

"Alive?" Irene finished for him, taking her hands from Anthony to have another sip of tea. "Well, I think you'll find me even more alive than I was during our previous adventures together."

"I doubt that."

"What have I done to make you so angry with me, John?"

"Jesus, you're dead! You were dead!"

John brought a hand to his face. How was Irene Adler alive? Mycroft had been thorough, he had assured John. Yes, they had lied to Sherlock about her death, saying that she was in a witness protection program, but John knew...he _thought_ he knew the truth.

"I thought she was in America," Mary said to John, still tense. John sighed.

"No...that's what Mycroft...I was supposed to tell Sherlock. I'm sorry I lied to you," he added, hoping his wife wouldn't be upset. She wasn't.

"Alright, now I'm surprised," she told Irene, who grinned in amusement. Anthony raised an eyebrow at her.

"Wait, so you're...are you the Woman?" Anthony had, of course, read the story of Belgravia on John's blog.

Irene laughed. "I'm glad to hear I'm so well remembered."

John was not amused. "That's it, I'm calling Sherlock." He had already pulled out his phone.

"He'll be here shortly."

"How d'you know that?"

"You don't think Mycroft's demanded an explanation from him yet?"

"Explanation for what? _He_ doesn't know you're...that you were dead..."

"Trust me, he does.

John barely had to consider it. "He saved you."

"He owed me a favour."

As if on cue, there was another knock at the door. Sherlock let himself in.

"You left the door unlocked," he stated, a little accusingly. Mary made a humorously apologetic face at John, who bit his lip. Sherlock entered the kitchen. "Anthony, I think you should go upstairs."

"Uncle?"

"Go." Anthony looked a little offended, but obliged, trudging up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock walked to the counter, leaning on it next to John. "Miss Adler," he greeted her, nodding. John put his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes.

"Sherlock, mind explaining...this?" John asked his friend, who folded his arms nonchalantly.

"I've always found it quite touching: your lie to spare my feelings, John. Proves how generous you are to me."

"You knew? All along, you knew?"

"Didn't want to complicate things."

John scoffed, folding his own arms. Then something occurred to him. He addressed Irene: "You're the friend in New Jersey. The one who told him about Moran's wife."

Irene smiled. "Good. You've trained him well, Mister Holmes." Sherlock didn't reply, but there was a lightness in his face. They had a very specific rapport.

"Would someone _please _tell me what's going on here?" John finally demanded, impatient.

"Moran is on his way to London," Sherlock informed him, taking a seat at the table. John followed suit, and the four adults squared off.

"Him? Specifically?" John asked. Sherlock turned to Irene for an answer, having not fully deduced all of the details.

"He's not here to cause trouble, just to watch you for a while. I thought you might like to know, have the chance to get your hands on him."

"I don't understand-we already caught Moran. Years ago."

Irene nodded. "That's right."

"So he's escaped? Why didn't Mycroft tell us?"

It was Sherlock who answered. "Mycroft doesn't think he's a threat. He should see that we're no longer after him or his followers, and leave."

"But what about...what about Los Angelos? What about...a higher commander?" John hadn't told Mary much about his conversation with Sherlock after their vacation incident, when he realized that perhaps both Moriarty and Moran were answering to someone else, someone above them.

"We have no conclusive proof that such a person exists, John," Sherlock stated.

"We can't prove that he doesn't though, either. What if Moran is spying on us for him?"

"Or her," Irene offered, running her fingers through her hair, the feminist in her coming out.

"And you," John addressed the Woman, "What are you doing here? If you're not worried, why'd you come all this way just to tell us that a trained sniper was going to spy on us, but that it was no big deal?" Irene looked pensive, deciding on her answer.

"John," she began slowly, her eyes falling upon Mary, who was friendlier face to speak to, "I said that you weren't in _immediate _danger, not that you weren't in any at all." She took a deep breath. "As it happens...you're right. There is someone above Moran. There is someone...who was even above Moriarty. But he's not after you. As a matter of fact, he's not _after _anyone, at the moment, but when he decides to be," she looked directly at Sherlock, "he'll come after the person most likely to play the best game. But that's only if Sherlock gets involved with another one of his crimes, which is unlikely. He's mainly North America based, as far as I know.""

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, folding his arms. He didn't look too surprised, though, and why should he be? John always knew that Sherlock was the target. He was the one all of the bad guys were after, because he was the brilliant one, the man who solved the crimes. John had just gotten in the way, placing himself into Sherlock's life as a friend and documenter. There were still questions, though.

"If Sherlock's the one in trouble, why are you here? At _our _house?" Mary asked in John's place. Irene had finished her tea by then, and Mary picked it up, motioning an offer for a second cup. Irene declined, and answered:

"John's started his blog up again."

John frowned. "Is that a bad thing?"

Irene didn't make any affirmative gesture, but said, "Moran's men in America never actually decided whether or not Sherlock was alive. They were moving blindly, without a leader, and with no lifeline to London with Moran in custody. You starting your blog back up confirmed that Sherlock was back in action, and that's when they came to free Moran."

"So you're saying that this is my fault?"

"No. Of course not. You know I love your blog," Irene flirted.

"So why here? Why my house? Why do _I _have to know that you're alive?"

"Moran, and even his men have nothing against you, John, other than the fact that Sherlock cares ever so much about you." Sherlock took a strong breath in through his nose, a little uncomfortably. "But your life has already been threatened, and Sherlock came back from it. Sherlock 'died' to save you, but he was able to return, so they won't go after you again. It isn't effective." Irene gave Sherlock a look, and John heard his friend gasp, though his face gave no indication of the reaction. Irene nodded, sadly, and addressed Sherlock: "One day, a long time from now, they're going to go after the one thing you hold most dear."

Mary let out a silent cry, and instinctually watched the stairs. Sherlock evaded all of their glances. John stated the obvious: "They're going to go after Anthony." It was a universal truth.

"It's Moran who wants him, not his leader," Irene assured them. "So, it's not something you'll have to worry about. If you catch Moran while he's here, in fact, I doubt that you'll ever have to worry about it. Whoever Moran works for clearly doesn't care much for him. Moran was an accessory to Moriarty, and it was Jim who held the connection to their boss."

"Do you have any idea who that boss is?" Sherlock asked Irene, whose face fell in thought.

"I don't have a name...I don't know anything except that there _is _definitely someone. I haven't met him, but I've met a recent hire of his. I was...threatened, back in America."

"So _that's _why you're here," John accused her. Mary placed a protective hand on Irene's shoulder.

"Are you in danger?" she asked Irene. Mary was always too kind for her own good: she didn't know a thing about Irene Adler or what she could accomplish, she just wanted to see that the sweet woman at her kitchen table would be safe.

"As it happens," Irene answered, "I am. But I'm not your concern at the moment."

"What did you do to piss this guy off?" John asked, wondering what Irene had been threatened for. She shrugged.

"Oh, you know me. I like to cause trouble. But...I also may have provided Sherlock with a few select pieces of information that might have brought him further out into the open." So, Irene was in trouble for helping Sherlock, but he wasn't.

"So, if we catch Moran, what happens?"

"You're fine. _You're_ safe. For good."

"That's what we thought the first time we caught him."

"Yes, but you didn't catch _all _of his friends. You'll need to work at that."

"I thought Moran's friends were the leader's friends, as well?"

"Oh no. No, he's not the type to care for followers in that reign. He tried that with Moriarty, and now it's just too complicated. He prefers to work alone. So, if you catch Moran and his gang, this boss-man will have a clean slate. I wouldn't be surprised if he helped them to free Moran just so you could get him out of the way."

So, there it was. Most of it, anyway. The Boss had hired Moriarty as an experiment, to see if having a second in command do his dirty work for him would be a successful venture. It hadn't been, and Moriarty died, leaving behind his very own band of criminals who were extremely loyal to him, none of them more than Moran. Moran, without a leader, had clung onto The Boss (as John was now calling him), his own followers under him. When John and Sherlock caught Moran, his followers went after them, trying to get their leader back. They had probably gone to The Boss for help, thinking that he would care, but he didn't. So, he got them to free Moran in the UK so that Sherlock would have a better chance of finding and capturing all of them, finally ridding The Boss of any more annoyances. Moran's men weren't sent there to cause trouble, they were sent over as bait. Sherlock was supposed to catch them, to do The Boss' dirty work for him. When they were caught, The Boss would have no further interest in Sherlock Holmes, who had merely gotten in the way of his most pretentious criminal.

"Alright. So we catch Moran and his men, and we're safe? Is that what you're telling me?" John asked Irene. Sherlock leaned in, clearly also wanting to hear her response.

"Yes," Irene answered confidently. "And...well, can you blame me for wanting to visit?" It wasn't entirely true. Irene had probably come as much to warn them as to put herself back on Mycroft's radar, and find a way to receive protection from him. She was coming out as alive so that she could hide herself back into obscurity, her previous concealment having been ruined by her association with this_ Boss_.

Irene left them soon after that. Mary offered her a place in their home for some time, if she was still worried about her safety, but Irene declined.

"I have a feeling I've got a car waiting for me outside, actually." When John opened the door for her, she had been correct, and one of Mycroft's cars was sitting in front of their house. He could see the light from a cell phone inside, meaning that Anthea was waiting to pick her up. Sherlock walked Irene to the doorway.

"I have instructed my brother to treat you with a great deal of respect. You will be relocated to somewhere safe within the week." Irene kissed Sherlock on the cheek in response. He did not flinch, but his brow furrowed as it had years earlier when they had met. Irene was truly one of the only women in the world who could compete with Sherlock Holmes. Once she was gone, John told Mary to go to bed.

"You're not going to start now, are you?" she begged. "You won't catch them all tonight."

Sherlock chimed in: "John won't be doing any rounding up of criminals. I can assure it."

"What do you mean?" John demanded, angrily. "They're going to come after Anthony!"

"You heard the Woman," Sherlock always called her that, "_Not for ages._ There is time, John, and I will take care of Moran and his men. It will all be dealt with by the time the week is up. You just live your life as usual, and I'll let you know when it's all over."

John shook his head. "No. Not again. I know what happens when you do this: you leave for months and months and I don't hear from you. No: we can do this quicker together."

"No, I can do it quicker by myself. I'll have help-"

"-Yes, from me!"

"_NO!_" John hadn't heard Sherlock scream at him since the night before his 'death'. He was shocked by Sherlock's anger, and had no response to it other than to match it as best he could.

"I am coming with you, Sherlock Holmes, and that is final."

Sherlock was still furious. He pressed his index finger against John's chest as he spoke. "You will let me handle this. You will not get in my way." He emphasized every single word.

"I won't let you do this alone, not again!"

"You _WILL!_" Sherlock had pushed John against his room wall. John wasn't afraid of the strong gesture, knowing that Sherlock was probably just using it for shock value. Mary ran up behind him, putting her hands on his arms to calm him.

"Boys, I think we could all use some rest. We'll discuss this in the morning."

John could have laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. "Mary, you don't get it. Sherlock wants to take out an entire band of criminals all by himself!"

Mary was unscathed. "That's right. He's done it before, and he can do it again. He has help from Mycroft. If he needs you, he'll call." It was strange to watch Sherlock's reactions to what Mary was saying about him. He looked almost flattered. John slapped Sherlock's hands off of his body and grabbed his friend by the collars of his coat.

"You_ promise_ me you'll come back. Come back, like you always do."

Sherlock nodded, affirmatively.

"And once they're all gone, we're in the clear? There won't be anyone left to come after us?"

Another nod.

"And you won't go pissing off any other consulting criminals?"

A laugh, and then a nod.

"Promise. I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock took a deep breath, his face extremely solemn. "John, I told you I will handle this as best I can. When it's all over, I'll come back, and we will never have to worry about Moran or Moriarty or anyone else. I swear it."

"And swear you'll be careful."

"I do. I swear."

John let Sherlock leave that night. He didn't want to, and it wasn't fair that he had to, but he did. And eventually, Sherlock came home once again, and for the first time in years, John finally felt safe.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Notes: **I hope you like this chapter! I'm enjoying writing Anthony growing up, and developing his relationship with his Godfather. This chapter was particularly interesting to write, and it was fun to keep up the pace. If you like it, shoot me a review in that fancy little review box. I got so many notifications on the last chapter, and it was such a compliment, so thanks to all of you for your sweet words and favourites.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Sixteen<strong>

If anyone were to ask John Watson who he was married to, he'd probably tell them that he was married to Mary Morstan, a lovely girl he met in the park on his way home from the cemetery. If they were to ask Mary who John Watson was married to, however, she would make a joke that the answer was Sherlock Holmes, and that she was simply John's mistress. Or perhaps the other way around. The details didn't matter. What did matter was that John Watson had friends that stood out amongst all the rest, and that both of them would do everything in their power to keep him safe.

But John wouldn't let Mary do the protecting. She was his wife, his cherished treasure, the mother of his child. As long as he was around, no harm would come to her or his son. She was his responsibility, his to keep safe. Mary still did protect John, of course, but it wasn't from criminals or other dangers: it was from himself. She kept his heart safe.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was allowed to protect John from those awful people who made his life such hell. John didn't like it, but he knew that with Sherlock, there was no persuading him otherwise. It wasn't fair: John wanted to protect his friend, but in order to do so, he would have to leave his family in someone else's hands. It was the worst decision. Sherlock had been his life before Mary and Anthony, even though he had only known the man for a short time before meeting his wife. But the two of them completed each other then, and they remained complete now. In many ways, with John's new family, they were more complete than ever, because Sherlock adored Mary, and he would do anything for Anthony.

Absolutely anything, like go on a hunting spree for a group of American madmen. John let Sherlock go on this trip, with no indication of how long it would take or how much help he would have. John let Sherlock go, because there was no keeping him at home. And John appreciated his friend's determination. Sherlock never talked about his feelings, he never discussed his relationship with the Watson family. But he loved them, every single one. They were parts of him.

John was his other half. As in Mary's jests, John was in many ways a spouse to Sherlock, though their relationship was everything but romantic. They completed each other. Neither was better without the other, and they had the type of bond that was impossible to break. Even death couldn't come between them.

Mary was his friend, and worthy confidant. They didn't speak much alone, but Mary knew Sherlock in ways he didn't understand. Perhaps it was because Mary was so intuitive, or perhaps it was just because John was meant to make her part of their circle, another piece of the completed Holmes-Watson puzzle. Sherlock respected Mary, and John knew that while he wouldn't admit it, he considered her among his best companions, and wouldn't hesitate to call her in his time of need.

And then there was Anthony. Anthony was the last thing necessary to Sherlock's life: something to put a piece of himself into. John had once been jealous of the relationship Anthony and Sherlock shared, afraid that his son saw Sherlock as more of a father-figure than he was, but that wasn't it at all. Yes, Sherlock was a type of father-figure to Anthony, but John would always be his "Dad." And besides, it was comforting to know that someone else loved Anthony as much as John did, and he selfishly cherished the knowledge that he wasn't the only man willing to die for his only son.

So John let him leave. Letting Sherlock leave him was the hardest thing in the world-no, letting him leave was easy. But the worrying...every day he expected a call from Mycroft, telling him that Sherlock was gone this time-really gone. But what would that mean? Sherlock came back. Irene came back. Did death even exist anymore? Was it even a possibility?

It took half a year for John to find out. It was Anthony's twelfth birthday, and he had invited his four friends over to play in the backyard. Sally Donovan had eased up on Chris, allowing him to go over to the house (she was never made aware of Moran). John and Mary were inside, John doing some paperwork from the clinic and Mary knitting a blue scarf that reminded John of Sherlock. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. It was from Sherlock.

Sherlock had often texted John over the months, but they were usually little quips to give him clues about where he was, or even just to tell little stories from his adventures, or to let him know when he had taken out another member of Moran's gang. This time, however, Sherlock texted John an address, and John knew that there was no time to lose for him to get there.

"Mary, I've got to go. Stay here. Act normal," he instructed his wife, who got up from her seat to see John out. He went over to the foyer, where he had left his revolver in the little set of drawers that stood there. He put the weapon into his belt and opened the front door. There was already a car waiting for him, but no one was inside. John was meant to go alone.

"Be careful," Mary ordered her husband as he blew her a kiss and shut the door behind him. His blood was rushing, and his pulse couldn't have been quicker, but his body was completely calm. John was returning to the battlefield.

He got into the car. The key was still turned, and the engine running. He knew where to go.

He stopped in front of an empty warehouse, one he'd been to years before, on the Hansel and Gretl case. He didn't bother ducking as he got out. Countless other cars were already there, and he could see the flashing of light against other weapons all around the building. Mycroft's eyes were all over the place, protecting him, but he was going in alone. The door of the building was already peeking open. He wrapped his fingers around it and slowly pulled it the rest of the day. It was dark, but for the sunlight streaming in through the high windows. He heard the cocking of a gun.

"Why shouldn't I kill you now, here?" Sebastian Moran demanded from across the building. John searched side to side for Sherlock, but there was no sign of him. He improvised:

"Because I can offer you something no one else can: protection." It was a downright lie, and John knew it wasn't a very good one, but it seemed to spark some interest from Moran.

"I have protection."

"From who? Your big boss man? Or, should I say: Jim's?" John's eyes darted from corner to corner. Was Sherlock even there?

"He's already helped me find your little friend...I'm just waiting for him to come on out." So Sherlock was there, but he was hiding. And he was letting John do the talking for him.

"Why's he hiding?"

"Because I won't listen to him."

"And you'll listen to me?"

"I didn't say that." Moran's finger twitched.

"Where's your boss now?" John asked, stalling. Sherlock must have had a plan, he always did. Moran didn't answer. "Surely you need protecting now more than ever, there are dozens of armed guards all over this place." Moran was unsurprised.

"They won't last long."

"Won't they? Are you expecting Him to send a fleet of officers just to help you out of this mess? Anyone He would have sent is already dead."

"Those were my best men," Moran informed John. "But they were reckless. It had nothing to do with Him."

"You don't think so? Why would he send your little friends all the way to England just to save you? Are you really that important to him?"

Moran looked offended, and also nervous. "I'm His best man."

"I don't think so."

"I am!"

"Jim was, maybe," John allowed, "But you were just...luggage. Boring, useless luggage."

Moran's grasp tightened around his gun. John thought for a moment that he might shoot him, but he didn't. "What are you saying?"

John shrugged. "I'm saying, He sent your men over here so that we could get rid of them for Him. We're His extermination squad. Doesn't that piss you off?"

"I won't abandon Him."

"Why not? He's abandoned you!"

"He hasn't!" Moran lost his grip for a moment, nearly dropping his gun. John took this as a chance to remove his own from his waistband and point it directly back at the sniper. Moran laughed. "An interesting position we've placed ourselves into, isn't it?"

"I'm going to give you choice," John began, slowly, hoping his lie would still be believed. "You can shoot that gun, and an army of guards will come in here and kill you. Or, you can put the gun down and walk out of here a free man, under one condition: you tell us who you're working for."

Moran shook his head. "I can't do that."

"You don't have much of a choice."

"Don't I?" And Moran shot his gun, but the bullet didn't hit John. He heard the sound of someone losing his breath. John's hand shook. Sherlock fell out from behind a stack of boxes, shot. The doors swung open, and a dozen guards rushed into the room, all of them pointing their guns at Moran. He dropped his gun and put his hands into the air. They rushed him and handcuffed him. As soon as John saw that he was no longer carrying a weapon, he dashed over to Sherlock's body. "He'll come and get me-he's done it once, he'll do it again!"

John ignored the man, knowing that he was wrong, that he would rot away in one of Mycroft's cells if he wasn't sentenced to death for all the horrible crimes he had committed. He ripped open Sherlock's shirt to get a better look at the wound. Oh yes, this was the battlefield all over again. Sherlock had been shot in the chest-in the lung. John took his pulse. It was there.

"Move over!" A paramedic was pushing John out of the way. They picked up the man's body and placed it onto a stretcher. Flashbacks from St. Bartholomew's were running through John's mind. He let them take his friend into the ambulance (which looked like a freight truck from the outside) as the female guard he recognized from Los Angeles took his arm.

"You've done well, John," she told him in an Irish accent, leading him towards a normal-looking vehicle. John got into the front seat, the guard taking the driver's.

"What exactly was I meant to be doing?"

She began to drive, not answering. John recognized the route-they were going to the building where Mycroft had been treated. It was all happening so fast, John still hadn't taken the time to rationalize all of it, so he simply accepted every direction he was receiving. Finally, the driver spoke. "I'm Agent Thorpe," she informed him. "Josie Thorpe. I've been watching your family for some time now." Yes, John knew he had recognized her.

"You're Nate's mum," he realized. He had met her once when he was driving her son Nathaniel home from his own house. He had barely looked at her, explaining why he didn't realize she was the same agent who had walked him to the landing pad in Los Angeles years earlier. She smiled.

"I didn't expect him to get so close to your boy...but Chris introduced them, and I guess the rest is history."

"Anthony likes Nate a lot. It's good for him, having some friends."

"Yes, I saw that he'd been having some trouble."

It was a small world after all.

"Are you going to tell me why I was sent in like that, all alone?"

Josie nodded. "He couldn't kill you. It was Sherlock's idea. He had spent three years under strict order that since Sherlock had committed suicide, you were not to be touched."

"But Sherlock never did kill himself. I should have been fair game."

"No." Josie sighed. "Sebastian Moran was indefinitely loyal to James Moriarty. He couldn't kill you, because that would feel to him like he was going back on his word, even if technically he wasn't."

"So, he could have killed me, but he _probably _wasn't going to."

"Not if he could off Sherlock instead."

It was suddenly clear to John. "Sherlock let himself get shot."

Josie nodded. "It had to be his choice." She continued: "You were sent to see if we could get him out by his own willpower. Sherlock said you'd have the best chance at changing his mind."

"Why'd he think that?"

"Because you knew the least. Anyone else would have sounded like they were lying, like they had been told what to say."

"I was lying."

"True," she allowed, "But you weren't fed the lines. Moran's watched you for such a long time, John, he felt like he knew you. You were the man he had to keep alive, so that he could watch you mourn. In some ways, he even protected you." John wanted to vomit. "In his mind, the two of you had a sort of...relationship. Both the sidekicks, both loyal to your friends. In some strange way, as Sherlock figured out for us: Sebastian Moran trusted you."

John didn't ask any more questions. The reality of what he'd just been through was finally sinking in, and it made him feel sick. He had been sent to rationalize with a criminal, and his best friend had been shot in the process. He had been put in danger just so he could be protected. Sherlock Holmes had done another stupid thing in order to save his best man's life, and who was to say if he would make it through the night?

Finally they arrived the the Farmhouse building, where John followed Josie in. He was taken to the waiting room he had seen years earlier. Only this time, Mycroft was there, waiting for him.

"He'll been in there for a while, I'm told," Mycroft informed John, who sat down opposite him. He looked down the hallway. Anthea was in front of the Operating Room, her arms folded. Every now and then she would wave a hand at Mycroft, or tilt her head a certain way. Without words, she was keeping her boss informed about the surgery. "Anthea is quite a skilled surgeon herself, did you know?" Mycroft asked John, who felt offended by his attempt at small-talk in this situation. Mycroft could clearly tell. "John, not to worry. The bullet has been removed. It's merely a matter of patching things up again."

"Patching things up?" John asked furiously. "That's your brother we're talking about here!"

Mycroft nodded, looking guilty. "Yes. I know." John felt bad for yelling. Of course Mycroft was just as worried as he was, he just didn't handle things the way John did.

The two men sat in the waiting room until Anthea returned. "He'll be out for hours," she told them, sitting next to Mycroft.

"Thank you, dear." John observed the two of them. Anthea began a step-by-step explanation of Sherlock's surgery, and while John himself wanted to hear the details, he was more intrigued by the rapport the two people in front of him seemed to share. Anthea was quite a bit younger than Mycroft-closer to Sherlock's age-and there was obviously no romantic arrangement between them. But John had known Anthea as long as he had known the Holmes boys, and while she wasn't attached to Mycroft at the hip, she was always present in some capacity. Perhaps she was picking someone up for him, or taking notes for him...or waiting in a secret hospital for him. But she was always there for him, always available, always keeping him in the know. She was Mycroft's companion, and perhaps, as John could see for the first time, his confidant, as indicated by the way she gently tapped her hand on his knee as if to comfort him.

Anthea gave John a "be strong" sort of look, and John gladly accepted it, realizing that she might actually know what he was going through in that moment. Anthea didn't want to lose Mycroft any more than John wanted to lose Sherlock. John couldn't help himself from giving her a tiny half-smile. The two companions had finally reached an understanding.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes: **I love going to my Inbox after I post a new chapter and seeing all of your lovely reviews, favourites and story alerts. I'm glad to see that you all like this story almost as much as I like writing it! This chapter took me on an interesting ride, and it took _me _where it wanted to go rather than the other way around. I love it when the story takes over for you, and you just have to do the typing, having not expected things to take the turns they do. Keep sending me your thoughts, reactions and reviews. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Seventeen<strong>

Mycroft didn't stay long after receiving confirmation that Sherlock would be alright, Anthea staying in his place. John didn't blame him for leaving: obviously he had important matters to attend to, what with Moran being caught once again. But there was still something on John's mind.

"Will you go after Him?"

"After who?" Mycroft asked, turning back from the door.

"Whoever Moran's working for."

Mycroft frowned. "No...no, I don't think that would be useful to us at this time. Best wait until He starts causing more trouble, rather than seek it out for Him."

John nodded, grateful as Josie Thorpe escorted Mycroft out of the building. So, it was done. Moran was in jail, and there was no one left to get him out. Whoever he was working for likely had no further interest in Sherlock Holmes, having only used him recently to take out his own minions. Sherlock was just housekeeping.

But Sherlock was also unconscious, and there was no way of telling when he would awaken. John sat there, across from Anthea, his head bent down over his clenched fists. His family was finally safe, but at what cost? Anthea had assured John and Mycroft that Sherlock would be fine, that the surgery went well, that they removed the bullet early enough...but he was still in the secret hospital, hooked up to the machines.

"I agree with you, you know." Anthea was speaking to John. He didn't understand.

"On what?"

"It was reckless, what he did. You could have talked Moran out of there. I was listening to you-you were so close."

John pondered the point she was trying to make. "He wasn't going to shoot me." He suddenly realized how irrational Sherlock had acted, putting himself into full view of Moran without reason. Had he thought that Moran was going to shoot John, so he'd distract the sniper? It wasn't like Sherlock to make that kind of mistake.

"Well, we all do stupid things for our friends," Anthea hummed, reading John's mind. He nearly laughed: she had practically repeated his words to Sherlock years earlier, only his, at the time, had been spiteful. Anthea raised an eyebrow, again reading John like a book, but she said nothing. Her fingers twitched, as they would if she were typing onto the keyboard of her phone. "Sorry," she mumbled, noticing the way John was watching her hands.

He shrugged. "What for?"

"I'm not usually so twitchy."

"You worried about Sherlock?" John wasn't sarcastic. Anthea had never shown any kind of affection towards Sherlock Holmes. John may have seen something akin to understanding between them, back when Mycroft had been hospitalized, but she was always indifferent towards the consulting detective. No, it wasn't Sherlock she was worried about. "Mycroft knows he's fine."

"Yes," Anthea agreed, "but he's still concerned."

John gave her a half smile. Anthea was worried for Mycroft, and it made sense. The last time he had lost someone, his health had fallen to pieces, and that was only for an absent father. If Sherlock...John couldn't think like that. All he knew was that he wouldn't be the only person torn apart by anything bad happening to Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't the only one who needed him. Anthea had tried to let Mycroft know that Sherlock's surgery had gone well, that he was out of the hole.

And then John realized something. It was something he had seen, but neither he nor Mycroft had observed it. He stood up, his heart racing, and looked down the hallway next to them. Anthea spoke:

"Don't." She was keeping him from running down the halls to the door of the Operating Room.

Because that was where Sherlock remained.

Because his surgery hadn't ended.

Because, if it had, he would have been moved to another room, a recovery room.

Anthea had lied, and neither John nor Mycroft had even noticed, both so eager to believe that Sherlock was absolutely fine. "How did he not know?" John asked her, wondering how Mycroft, who was Sherlock's only equal, didn't see what he himself had just discovered.

Anthea said nothing. John wanted to scream at her for lying, but instead he fell back into his seat, head in his hands. Sherlock wasn't alright-not yet. The surgery was taking too long. He was not okay. He was dying, and all because he had to take an unnecessary bullet for his useless friend. But John was a doctor, too, and so was Anthea, apparently. They had both seen the wound. They both knew how much danger Sherlock was in, and yet they were both letting strangers operate on him.

"I should go...see if I can help..." he mumbled, his voice barely reaching Anthea's ears.

"They're good surgeons. If anyone can help him, they can."

"But it's getting to be-"

"-It's not too late." Anthea was a doctor. She had been watching the surgery. But she had already lied once.

John rested his hand against his temple, rubbing it. "It's Anthony's birthday..." he mumbled, unaware of why he was telling Anthea.

"He's not going to die today, John," Anthea assured him. Anthony's birthday would not become the anniversary of his Godfather's death.

"I should call Mary." Another useless statement. John couldn't think straight.

"There's a phone in the left office. I can take you to it."

"No..." John didn't know what he would tell his wife.

` "She's been informed that you're alright."

"And Sherlock?"

Anthea shook her head. Mary probably didn't even know that Sherlock had returned yet. He knew that he should call her, but what good would it do? John didn't know if he could keep his composure if he had to tell Mary that Sherlock was probably dying. He just couldn't...

And then he started to cry. John hadn't cried in years, the last time having been at the loss of his unborn child. Sherlock had been there, resting his hand on John's knee, not knowing just how much the gesture had moved him, had comforted him. But Sherlock wasn't here to comfort John now. He was on a table, a group of strangers sticking their hands into his chest, trying to save him from his own recklessness. Damn him! Damn Sherlock for overreacting, for overprotecting John in a moment of...stupidity! Sherlock had been stupid. Stupid to call John at all. It wasn't just him, either: Mycroft had allowed all of it. He had wanted to get Moran out by his own will, and why? So that he'd be easier to deal with? Was John supposed to get Moran to confess the identity of his master? They could have just caught Moran, or killed him. Mycroft had more than enough guards surrounding the abandoned warehouse, they could have taken him out easily, and Sherlock would have walked out. Sherlock would have gotten into a cab, driven to John's house, and knocked on his door. He would wish Anthony a 'happy birthday' and spend the evening with John and Mary, telling them all about his adventures from the past months.

But instead, the Holmes boys had decided that John was the chess piece they wanted to play. And it was his own fault: his own fault for asking to be of service to them, asking to help in whatever way he could.

A white hankerchief came into John's sightline. Anthea was holding it out to him, her own eyes pointedly staring down the hallway, as if to give him some privacy.

"Thank you," John said, accepting the cloth. He wiped his eyes.

"We could have your wife brought over, if you'd like the company," she offered.

John shook his head. "Wait until he wakes up. Anthony'll want to see him, too." John smiled-a forced smile. Anthea returned the favour, generously.

"I'll go and arrange it." She stood up and walked down another hallway, presumedly to the office. John remained alone in the room, holding in the rest of his tears. There was no sound down the hall for what seemed like ages, until the door swung open. A nurse was running down the other way, calling for a 'Doctor Harris'. John was frozen. He could hear the beeping from Sherlock's machines echoing down the halls. Sherlock was dying. Anthea came back into the waiting room, heard the commotion, and ran down the hallway. John would have followed her, but he couldn't stand. He couldn't move, couldn't bear to let himself see what was happening to his friend. Anthea waited across from the door, looking in, watching the surgery. The nurse returned, a man in tow (John assumed it was Harris) and they slammed the door behind them. Anthea didn't move.

John watched her reactions for the next few minutes...well, they felt like days. Her face was slowly falling, and her hands were out of control, typing mindlessly against the side of her legs. In her mind, was she writing Mycroft? Was she describing the scene through her absent cell phone?

And then she stopped. Her fingers relaxed, and John saw her take a deep breath. The door opened, and Sherlock was wheeled out and taken down the hall, further away from John. He was moved to a recovery room. Anthea walked back to the waiting room, and John could finally stand.

"He's alive?"

Anthea nodded. "He'll be fine."

John breathed a sigh of relief.

A few hours later, Mycroft returned, and he wasn't alone. Mary and Anthony entered behind him, and Anthony ran to his father as soon as he saw him. He was holding his Safe-Keeping box, and the keys around his neck were dangling over his pajamas.

"Dad, is it true? Did Uncle Sherlock get shot?"

"Yes," John told his son, "But he's alright now." Mary pulled John into a hug, always knowing when he needed comforting. Anthony was staring down the hallway.

"Can I go see him?"

It was Mary who answered. "Honey, he's not awake yet."

"That doesn't matter," Anthony told her. John could see that his eyes were watering, but the twelve-year old was too old to cry, and he looked back to the hallway.

Mycroft walked up behind Anthony and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take you to him. They say that sleeping patients can hear every word said to them, even in the worst comatose state."

"He's in a coma?" Anthony's voice quivered.

"No," Mycroft answered, "so I think he'd be bound to hear you. Anthea?" Anthea approached her employer. Mycroft barely looked at her as he spoke, by now aware of her earlier deception. "Go prepare Sherlock's room for our visit, would you?" Anthea looked guilty, and John couldn't help feeling bad for her: she had only lied to spare Mycroft's feelings, to keep him from worrying. And she'd been right, eventually: Sherlock _was _going to be fine. Mycroft would forgive Anthea, eventually.

The Watsons followed Mycroft to Sherlock's room, and they sat down next to his bed. Mary held John's hand and Anthony squirmed in his seat. Mycroft stood in the corner, watching the room. He stayed there for a few minutes, looking his brother up and down, and then glanced at Anthea. John could see the twitch in her fingers again. Mycroft was still worried.

Anthony broke the silence. "Uncle?" he asked the sleeping body of Sherlock. Every eye turned to him, and he looked aware of his audience. He continued a little quieter. "Uncle, it's my birthday. I was really hoping you could come home for it." He smiled, sadly. "I guess you did." Anthony reached for his necklace, and used the brass key to open his Safe-Keeping box. He reached into it, and pulled out a sheet of his special paper. "I knew that you were busy, and that you probably wouldn't bring me a present this year," Anthony told the sleeping man as he closed the box again, "so I wanted to let you know that you are giving me one. My present from you doesn't have to be a gift: it's what you've taught me." He held up the paper in front of Sherlock's face, as if the man could see it. Perhaps Sherlock couldn't, but everyone else could. Anthony had drawn a picture of Mary's garden. The flowers, the bushes, the single, tall tree. On the back of the page, Anthony had sighed his name with _'Love.'_ John didn't know what the drawing had to do with the things Anthony was telling Sherlock, but he didn't say anything, still moved by his son. Anthony address Mycroft: "Can I leave this here?"

Mycroft took the paper and looked down at it. He laughed. "Oh yes," he said to Anthony, "He'll love this." John wanted to look at the picture again, to see what Mycroft had seen in it that he hadn't. But Mycroft had already passed it to Anthea, who began to file it into one of the drawers on the side of the room.

Mary took Anthony's hand. "I think it's time to go home. It's late."

Anthony nodded, and John heard him sniff. Mary stood up and led him towards the door, looking back at John. "I'm going to stay," he told her, and she let go of Anthony to return to John and give his a kiss, rubbing his neck tenderly.

"He's going to be fine, my love. We're all going to be, now." She was right. Sherlock was going to wake up, and everything was going to return to normal. There was no more Moran. There was no threat from this Boss fellow. Life was, for the first time, going to be entirely normal, and the Watsons were finally going to be truly safe. Before leaving, Mary placed her hand over Sherlock's, and she gave the detective a kiss on the cheek. "You'll sleep your life away, young man," she joked, herself a few months younger than Sherlock. She returned to Anthony and Anthea led them out, leaving only John and Mycroft in the room with Sherlock.

Mycroft approached Sherlock's bed on the opposite side to John, and pulled a chair up towards it. John watched as Mycroft adjusted the sheet the was covering his sleeping brother, his hands quivering from the shock of the day. John would have taken the oppourtunity to change the subject, but Mycroft began to speak, never looking John in the eye.

"We've placed Moran into our highest security level cell. He is completely isolated, completely hidden. I think our lack of interrogation is frustrating to him, but as it is, there's nothing to investigate. We are not going after his leader, and everyone else in his circle is either dead or in another facility. I suppose he'll just have to live with the silence. We considered a death sentence, but...well, perhaps that would be too kind." John wanted to respond, but it hadn't taken long to realize that Mycroft wasn't talking to him at all: he was talking to Sherlock. John had the same feeling he'd had the day Sherlock had brought him to visit Mycroft in that very same room, the feeling of being a fly on the wall to an extremely moving moment. But Mycroft barely noticed John, and even if he did, there was an underlying trust between them. Like he had years before, John stood to leave. Then Mycroft addressed him: "There's no need to leave. In fact...I'd quite...prefer it, if you'd stay." John didn't sit back down.

"I should give you some time alone with him."

"Alone is overrated, John."

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

_ No. Friends protect people._

Was John protecting Mycroft in some way by staying? Was he a calming presense to the government official, keeping him company? "This just seems...private."

"In what way?"

"Like, something that should be..." John didn't like explaining the sentimentality of the matter to Mycroft any more than he would have liked telling Sherlock. "This should just be between you two: between brothers."

Mycroft tilted his head. "And you don't think you've earned that title by now?"

Neither Holmes had ever said anything more moving to John Watson, and it was clear that while Mycroft was one to have done the talking, the sentiment came from both.

So, John sat there and listened to Mycroft's stories, adding his own bits to expand them. They spoke to the sleeping Sherlock, wondering whether or not he could hear them, or if he would remember any of it when he woke up. The small, strange family were together in that hospital room, taking comfort in each others' presence, waiting for the third brother to find his voice.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for how brief this chapter is...it's late, but I had a plot-bunny, so I wrote it up quickly for all of you. I just wanted to give Anthony a voice for a chapter, and to check with on him as he grows up. I just decided that he was old and mature enough to have his own chapter by now. Enjoy and please review!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Eighteen<strong>

Anthony Watson was twelve-years old. He was relatively normal for a boy his age, despite the fact that he'd been in mortal danger for the better part of his young life. But that was all over now, thanks to his Godfather, Sherlock Holmes.

Uncle Sherlock, Anthony called his Godfather. It was a title he'd never grow out of using, and even if he did grow out of it, Sherlock was still his family. He was more a relative than his real aunt, Aunt Harry, who Anthony had barely seen since she ran away across the pond with a new girlfriend. Not that Anthony didn't like his Aunt: she sent him Christmas and birthday gifts every year, but they weren't personal. She would call, sometimes, but she would constantly forget how old he was, or what he was interested in. Sherlock never forgot. Sherlock knew Anthony better than anyone else, and in many ways, Anthony knew his Godfather better than anyone else, too.

Sherlock knew that Anthony's greatest passion in the world was his art.

Sherlock knew that Anthony only had four friends, and that those four were the only ones he needed.

Sherlock knew that Anthony trusted him indefinitely.

And Sherlock knew that all of this was subject to change. Anthony was only twelve, after all, and who knew the person he was going to grow into?

Anthony loved his art. He loved drawing, painting, sculpture. He was good at it, too: the best in his class. In fact, he was the best his age that he knew. The thing that he loved most about creating pictures was when he was able to incorporate people in his art. He loved drawing their faces, and creating their feelings with the strokes of his pencil.

He also liked Astronomy. Planet amazed Anthony, and constellations moved him. It amazed him that he was so small while the Universe was so big. He also liked having something that he could teach his Godfather, in return for all of the things that Sherlock had taught him.

Anthony's best friend in the world was Chris Donovan. Their friendship rivaled the one between John and Sherlock, the two spending all of their time together looking for some sort of adventure to partake in. Chris' mother was Sally Donovan, and she was as much a Sergeant at home as she was at work. But Anthony wasn't like his father: he didn't hate Sally. She could actually be quite kind, she was just cold. She was looking after Chris, and while Anthony wished his friend could have more freedom when it came to the two of them spending time together, he appreciated the was Sally looked out for her son, and for his friend.

He had other friends, too. Nate was from Dublin, and Anthony had recently learned that his mother had moved their family to the neighbourhood as a way of looking out for his, but he never told his friend. Nate was old for his age-he loved old rock music, and was learning to play the guitar. He was the wisdom in Anthony's group of friends, and always the voice of reason when they were getting themselves into dangerous situations. Not that they often did, but sometimes Chris would rebel against his mother and lead the gang to an abandoned cemetary or dark alley, just to explore, and things would start to get a little scary. Nate always got them out safely. He took after his mother that way.

Adam was into sports. Every sport. He didn't do very well in school, and over the past year they'd all worried that he wouldn't pass his classes, and that he'd be dropped down into Anthony's year at school. But Anthony, who was smarter than his grade, was able to tutor Adam, and he'd succeeded. Anthony tried to hide his disappointment: it would have been nice if one of his few friends could have been in his year.

Anthony had started to notice how much Christine reminded him of his mum, Mary. She loved to cook, and would often invite the gang over to her house for lunch or supper, showing off her latest recipe. She was like Nate, though, in that she would try to keep them out of bad situations before they got themselves into them. But, even though she mothered them a little, they were never annoyed. It was nice to have a girl in the group, and none of the boys would ever admit to having a crush on her. Anthony valued her friendship too much to ruin it with those types of feelings.

Those were the only friends he needed. He was still bullied in school sometimes, but he had learned from his friends that it didn't matter what people said about him, as long as he knew that he was a good person. Chris had assured Anthony that he was the nicest person he knew, and that he didn't deserve the abuse from his classmates. Anthony's parents had told him the same things, of course, but it meant more coming from a peer for some reason. Perhaps he was just at that age where his friends were starting to shape his mind more than his family did.

But Anthony still loved his parents. If anyone were to ask, he would say that he had the coolest dad in the world: John was a doctor and a famous writer. He'd say that his mum was the nicest in London, and that she was the most generous to his friends. They annoyed him sometimes, and didn't always let him go out late at night or play video games, but they were his parents.

And Anthony loved his Godfather. Uncle Sherlock had taught Anthony so many things, lessons that he didn't realize he used every single day. When he was littler, he had simply accepted his Uncle's teachings as part of his daily routine, but now he realized that he cherished every word his Godfather said to him. Uncle Sherlock was the most exciting man in all of England, and every now and then, Anthony had him all to himself. One of his greatest worries was disappointing Sherlock, because he wasn't the brilliant detective that his Uncle was. He didn't have any special talents of deduction, he only had what he'd been taught throughout his life, and he hoped that it would be enough to impress Sherlock. What Anthony didn't know was that he impressed his Godfather every single day with his talent in art, his gentle disposition, and his maturity.

But Sherlock was in the hospital. It had been over a week since Anthony's twelfth birthday, and Sherlock hadn't woken up yet. It didn't make sense: Mycroft had assured him that Sherlock was not in a coma, and yet it appeared that he was. He was hooked up to so many machines, and his body was stuffed with tubes. Sherlock looked like one of the experiments that Anthony loved to look at, only he didn't like this one. He wanted the experiment to end so he could write down the end result in his Safe-Keeping box, and he wanted the result to be Sherlock in perfect health.

Anthony visited Sherlock every other day, which was as often as his father allowed. John was there every single day. Anthony knew how close his father and Sherlock were. It was like the detective was his real, biological uncle. No matter how upset Anthony would be from losing his Godfather, his father would be far more broken. This was something that Anthony had known ever since the first time he saw John and Sherlock bickering in his living room, which they had been doing as long as he could remember. John and Sherlock were a package deal, and in some ways, Anthony thought he had two father figures.

It was the ninth day after the incident. Anthony was with his mum by Sherlock's bedside. His dad, John, had gone to work. Anthony worried about his dad: had he slept enough that week? The answer was no. But at least he had left the secret hospital, and maybe he was even letting himself stop worrying about Sherlock. Anthony didn't talk to Sherlock while he slept this time, having run out of things to say. Mary, his mother, took over for him, telling Sherlock stories about her day or about things she'd heard in the news.

"You're needed here in London, Sherlock Holmes," she told the sleeping detective. "Just think of how many criminals are going to get off scott-free without you."

Anthony leaned his head against his mother's arm, his own eyes starting to close as she talked for both of them. But, just before Anthony fell sound asleep, he heard a noise.

Sherlock had taken a deep breath, but this one sounded different from his occasional snores. His face scrunched up towards his nose, and his fingers twitched. Was he trying to deduce where he was before simply opening his eyes and seeing? Anthony sat up straight, ready to greet his Godfather. Sherlock opened his eyes, and Anthony couldn't contain himself. He threw his arms over his Uncle, careful not to push down on his chest. He heard Sherlock laugh groggily, but he spoke as eloquently as he would had he been awake for hours.

"My dear boy, you seem too moved by this. How long have I been out?"

Mary answered. "Over a week."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, surprised. Anthony let him go. "Uncle, we were so worried about you!"

"Not to worry. I can see I'm in just the right place to make me perfectly well in no time. Now tell me," Sherlock started to ask, "Have I been kept company this entire time? I seem to recall a number of voices surrounding me."

Anthony grinned. "Mycroft said you'd be able to hear us."

"It seems so. Though, I haven't a clue what anyone told me."

"It's okay, Uncle. I'll tell you again."

And Anthony told his Uncle everything he could recall about the previous week. Doctors and nurses came in and out of the room, and Mary had left to collect John, but no one asked the boy to leave. Sherlock was sitting upright now, and he listened patiently to all of Anthony's tales, revelling in the boy's excitement. An hour later, John came bounding into the room. Sherlock greeted him.

"I'm sorry to have caused you so much worry."

Anthony could see his father's face brightening as he looked at the living Sherlock. He came into the room and stood behind Anthony's chair, resting his hands on his son's shoulders. "I see he's been filling you in."

"Oh yes. His stories are quite enthralling. Is there anything more I should know?"

And Anthony, who was such a smart boy for his age, knew that this was the time to leave the two men alone to chat. "I think I'm going to go to bed, okay Uncle Sherlock? I'll tell you more tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled. "I'd like that very much." And then: "I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

Anthony gave his seat to his dad before responding: "You didn't." He left the room, finding his mother waiting just around the corner for him. As the door closed behind him, he could hear his father saying:

"So what _were _you thinking, you smart-alec bastard?"

Anthony made a mental note to call his dad out on his language later on and left, knowing that he'd be seeing his Godfather again before the next day was done.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes: **I have no words for how sweet you people are and how much I appreciate all of your subscriptions and reviews. I only hope that you continue to enjoy this story and continue to send me your thoughts!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Nineteen<strong>

John played doctor for weeks after Sherlock woke up. He took it upon himself to nurse his friend back to full health, and to ease him back into taking cases. Anthony would go with him to 221B and they would spend the entire day with Sherlock. Sometimes, they would even stay over. Before too long, the great detective was back in tip-top shape and ready to go back to business as usual. Even after Sherlock had healed, though, Anthony would go over to the flat and show him all the things he had learned over the past year, and he would draw images from the times Sherlock had been absent during. Sherlock liked these visits as much as Anthony did.

At the end of Anthony's summer holidays, John received a phone call from Agent Josie Thorpe. He half expected it to be something about the kids: Anthony had told him that Nathaniel's birthday was coming up. But it wasn't.

"Hello, John...I was wondering how Sherlock was doing?"

John was taken aback. "He's alright, now. He's good. How come?" He could hear Josie breathing deeply on the other line. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

"It's...I would have gone to Mycroft, but I think this is more up Sherlock's alley."

She began to delve into a story regarding her brother, Peter, in Ireland, who had gotten caught up in a bit of trouble with a bizarre gang. He had been transporting goods all over the UK for them, and had even visited his sister only a few days before, going back home immediately afterwards. But Josie hadn't heard anything from him since, and had only found out about the trafficking on the news that evening. The gang had been discovered, and all of their names were listed...but they were nowhere to be found. Josie was hysterical.

"I don't know what he was thinking...how did I not know?"

John didn't hesitate before calling Sherlock and arranging a meeting. Before long, Sherlock had another case, with lots of legwork. They would have to go to Ireland and search for Peter Thorpe, who Sherlock believed from hearing the story was still alive, but likely either captive or in hiding.

But there was a problem: Mary was supposed to visit her parents that weekend. They had considered taking Anthony to Mycroft, to see if he would look after him, but Harry was also in Ireland, and she hadn't seen the boy in years. It seemed to make sense that Anthony would fly with John and Sherlock and stay at his Aunt's for the duration of the case. Mary approved, and Harry seemed excited, so plans were made for the boys to fly out.

Anthony was thrilled, and he kept saying that he was going on a case with his Dad and his Uncle.

"You're not going _on the case, _Anthony," John told him, but Anthony seemed to like pretending. He was excited to see his Aunt, too. That was the part John was most nervous about: Harry claimed to have been on the wagon for years, and John wanted to believe her, but they hadn't seen each other in such a long time that John had no proof of her rehab. Still, Harry was Anthony's aunt: she'd take good care of his son.

After saying goodbye to Mary, John and Anthony drove to 221B to pick up Sherlock. The detective got into the front seat next to John, but didn't say anything. John thought he looked like he was getting sick, but didn't mention that to Sherlock, who stared straight ahead the entire ride. When they got to the airport, the already pale Sherlock seemed to lose even more colour in his face. Anthony hopped out of the car to start collecting his luggage. John turned to Sherlock.

"You feeling alright?" he asked. Sherlock took a breath.

"Perhaps Josie's worries are correct...perhaps Peter Thorpe is already dead."

John narrowed his eyes. "That's not what you said before."

Sherlock shrugged, his face still oddly pale. "I just...don't want this to be a waste of time." John was bewildered by Sherlock's words, but didn't pay them much attention. The man was notorious for thinking aloud, whether or not John was there to hear it. It probably meant nothing.

The three boys went through airport security. Anthony couldn't have been more excited: the last time he had flown was when they had gone to L.A. and back, and he had loved being on the plane. That had been a massive passenger plane, though, and John knew that the one they would be flying on today would be much smaller and less comfortable. He had been able to arrange a window seat for his son, though. Anthony had tried to maturely hide his thrill when John told him-he was, after all, going into Year Eight at school-but John also knew that he had packed some of his special paper in his carry-on, and was probably planning to draw the world beneath him during the flight.

John nearly had a heart attack when they went through the metal detectors, suddenly worried that he had accidently packed his gun into his carry-on. Luckily, he hadn't, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for not succumbing to habit. Sherlock, on the other hand, had received clearance from Mycroft to bring along his own revolver, providing that it was packed into his suitcase. John was only mildly worried about only having one weapon for the duration of the case, of which they were still unsure of the possibility of danger, but they had survived Jim Moriarty for goodness sakes, some smugglers shouldn't be too hard to crack.

Finally, they made it to their gate, and it was time to play the waiting game. They sat down by the massive window, which Anthony ran to as they were pulling up the aircraft. Sherlock hadn't said anything since the car, but John could hear him mutter.

"I should call in a favour...I know a man in Dublin, used to be a smuggler...perhaps he _knows _where they are..."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was talking to him, so he gave a non-commital, "Hm," and kept an eye on Anthony, who was tracing the outline of the plane with his hands, probably to draw it onboard. Finally, they opened the gate. John stood and collected his son, and it took a minute for Sherlock to follow behind him. They waited in line, handed in their tickets, and finally got to the plane. There were two rows, with three seats on each side. They were towards the back of the plane, which John never found very comfortable, but it was a short flight. Anthony had the window seat, of course, and Sherlock took his own place in the aisle seat as soon at they made it to their row, rudely leaving John to lift their carry-ons into the cabinets above them. When he was finished, he awkwardly shuffled in between Sherlock and Anthony. It wasn't long before the flight attendants were in the aisle, explaining safety procedures. Sherlock did a lot of scoffing during their presentation, and John could hear him muttering to himself, but he tried to ignore it and listen to the Captain.

Finally, it was time to fly. The flight attendants were checking the cabin cabinets and seatbelts and making their way to their own seats as the plane began to prepare to take-off.

"Come to think of it, Peter Thorpe is definitely hiding in the city. Probably in a hotel somewhere." Sherlock's voice was higher pitched now, and John decided to confront him.

"Well, Sherlock, it's too late now. We're going."

"Not if I can help it." Sherlock reached for his seatbelt and started to undo it. John grabbed his hands.

"Sherlock, we're about to take-off! Keep your bloody belt on!"

Sherlock fought with John's hands, but the Doctor did his belt back up. "Fine..." he mumbled, and clenched his fists.

John sighed. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he whispered for Anthony's sake, but the boy was looking out the window. The plane was still wheeling into position. Sherlock didn't respond to him, but John could see his chest rising and falling heavily, in odd intervals. Then, he realized: "Are you scared of flying?" Sherlock scoffed, but didn't say anything to the contrary. "But...Sherlock...no. No, that doesn't make any sense."

Sherlock was offended. "No, it doesn't," he muttered, sounding angry for some reason. "I'm not scared of flying, John...I'm scared of...I'm not afraid to fly!"

John had the sudden urge to laugh, but didn't. "What are you afraid of, then?"

"It's perfectly rational."

"No, a fear of flying is perfectly irrational. You of all people should know that." It just didn't compute. How could Sherlock Holmes, who was probably well-aware that flying was the safest mode of transportation, be afraid to fly.

"I told you, I'm not afraid of flying! I'm afraid of...falling. Crashing, if you will."

John made a surprised face and looked away for a second, pondering. "But...you've flown before. You must have." Sherlock shrugged. "But you've...you were in America! You've been all over the world!" The plane stopped, briefly, finding it's angle. John's eyes widened. "Is that why you were always gone for so long?" he demanded. "How did you get to the States?"

"I find sea-travel extremely comforting..."

"You _sailed _to America? You mean to tell me that you were away for months, because you took a bloody _boat?_" John didn't want to yell on the plane, but it was accelerating, and he could barely be heard over the sound on the cabin. Sherlock tensed up next to him, his fists still clenched, and his face screwed up in fear. John could only feel so bad for the man, taking the tiniest morcel of joy in his discomfort. The plane was at full-speed, now, and John could see that Sherlock was holding his breath. "Sherlock...breathe..." he ordered him, and Sherlock took a sad little quip of an inhale. John could feel the plane tilting upward. They were taking-off.

Suddenly, pain. Sherlock had grabbed at John's knee and was holding on for dear life. John wanted to hit him, but he didn't want to make a scene. "Sherlock Holmes," he began, trying to calm him, "You were shot in the chest. How could you possibly be afraid of this?" Sherlock didn't offer any answer, but John could hear him muttering curse words under his breath. Anthony had looked away from the window and was biting his lip, obviously trying to hold in his laughter.

"John!" Sherlock yelped, gripping his leg tighter as the plane jerked. A few people had turned around to look at him. John sighed, annoyed, and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, trying to remove it from his knee. Sherlock twisted his hand around John's grasp and took hold of his hand.

"Sherlock..." John mumbled, but he was already defeated. "Okay...it's okay..." he soothed, patting the not-so-brave detective's hand in annoyance as the plane started to level out. Anthony was smiling freely now, giving his father a amused look. John simply rolled his eyes and Anthony turned back to the window. Eventually, the plane had finished taking-off and the seatbelt signs went off, indicating that they were free to get their carry-ons out. John tried to stand, but Sherlock was still holding onto him. "Could I get my hand back, maybe?" he requested, and Sherlock pulled his arms into a crossed position, still breathing in and out irregularly. John got up and went into the cabinet above them, passing Anthony his backpack and taking out a water-bottle from his own carry-on. He handed it to Sherlock and sat back down between him and his son. "Drink that," he ordered, and Sherlock's still shaking hands were twisting the cap off the bottle. He started taking small sips.

Anthony was pointing out the window. "Look, dad, look how small the houses are!" John peered over, unable to see through the window well.

"You should draw it for me," he told his son, who began to busy himself with his art. Sherlock took another sip of his bottle, and then John could see that curious look begin to grow on the man's face. Sherlock turned his head towards the window and leaned over Anthony to look out. He swallowed the water in his mouth and started choking on it, coughing loudly.

"Jesus...Christ..." he was muttering between coughs, and John let himself chuckle as he patted his back. "What's so funny?" Sherlock demanded as soon as his choking fit had ended. John put his hands up, shaking his head, indicating '_Nothing.' _Sherlock was not amused. "It's not irrational. Planes crash all the time."

"No, they don't," John told him, holding his breath to keep from giggling more.

It was a short flight, and before too long, they were already preparing to land. Sherlock didn't have as much of a fit during landing as he had during take-off, the pilot doing a very good job of keeping the plane level as they approached the ground. Still, Sherlock had clasped his hands together against his lips, and John could still hear him mumbling into his fingers as the wheels touched down. Sherlock leaped up as soon as they were allowed to exit, and pushed his way through the other passengers to get to the front of the aircraft. John reluctantly brought his carry-on out for him, Sherlock having abandoned it. Anthony was laughing behind him.

"I didn't think he was scared of anything," he told his father, who had stopped laughing at his friend now. Of course Sherlock had fears: perhaps this one was irrational, and perhaps it was only because he had never flown before, but it proved to John that the Great Detective was still very much human, and not the machine he often seemed to be.

Regardless, he would still have to call Mary as soon as they got to Harry's: she was going to think it was hysterical.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Notes: ** I can't believe that this is Chapter Twenty!I feel like I just started writing this story, and already I'm this far in. Thanks as always for all of your reviews and such! I have high hopes for my upcoming chapters, and I can't wait to get it all down on OpenOffice. Please continue to subscribe and let me know what's on your mind.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty<strong>

Sherlock had rented a car for their arrival in Dublin, and they drove Anthony to Harry's home. She greeted them at the door, her girlfriend out for the day. She pulled John into a hug. Harry had lost weight since he'd last seen her, but she wasn't frightfully thin. Her face was a healthy colour and she no longer had bags under her eyes, as she had when she was drinking. John smiled at his sister, and for the first time in years, he really meant it. Perhaps this new girlfriend really was the best thing that had ever happened to his sister. Harry turned her attention to Anthony.

"Look at you!" she cried, "You're huge!" She snatched Anthony into another hug, and he made a face at his father like he was being crushed, but Anthony liked his aunt, and hugged her back.

When she got to Sherlock, she held out her hand. Harry and Sherlock had met before, but she wasn't particularly fond of the man after he'd tricked her brother into thinking he was dead for three years. They had a curt greeting, and before long, John and Sherlock had to leave in order to meet with Josie Thorpe, who had arrived in Ireland earlier than they had. After giving Mary a quick phone call (in which he told her all about Sherlock's ordeal on the plane, to her amusement), John gave his son a kiss on the forehead before leaving. Anthony's brow furrowed, obviously thinking he was too old for the gesture.

"You'll be good for Aunt Harry?"

"Yes, Dad." Anthony rolled his eyes. John and Sherlock left the house and got into the car, Sherlock in driver's seat. They were driving towards the centre of the city, where they were meeting Agent Thorpe at a police station. After a few minutes of driving, Sherlock spoke:

"She likely won't start drinking again, so long as she stays with that woman."

John looked at him. Sherlock's face was solemn, as it often was, but perhaps he knew how much his words comforted John. It was kind of him to confirm Harry's sobriety: if Sherlock Holmes could see it, it must be true.

They reached the station and went inside, met by Agent Thorpe. She shook both of their hands. "Thank you so much for coming," she told them, sincerely. She looked exhausted, and John couldn't blame her. Not only had she just found out that her brother was a criminal, she had no idea whether or not he was still out there, alive. She took them into a small meeting room, where members of the local Yard were sitting around a table. The Chief of Police gave them the brief.

Peter Thorpe was a member of a smuggling gang under a man named Ezra Lauter. They primarily smuggled alcohol, but also dealt in drugs and endangered animals. Most recently, though, they had been found guilty of smuggling a particular drug called, simply, 'T'. 'T' was new, and it was both a hallucinogen and an upper. It was effective, but taken in large doses it could be extremely deadly. It was an impressive drug, and if one were to die taking it, it would appear in an autopsy that they overdosed on painkillers. Recent reports showed that members of another gang, also smugglers, had been found dead. Sherlock held his fingers to his lips-his thinking position.

"So, obviously there has been a great deal of competition over this drug."

"Indeed," Detective Inspector Blake confirmed. "It could have made them millions if we hadn't found it about it so soon."

The question was: had the Lauter gang gone into hiding, or had they been kidnapped by the other gang, whose leader was unknown.

"The whereabouts of this other gang: have all it's members been accounted for?" John asked.

"Many, but not all. Most of the ones we found were dead, except for Stephanie Chan."

John didn't want to look surprised at the mention of a woman in the gang, so he simply asked: "When will we be able to speak with her?"

The Inspector shook his head. "You won't. Ms. Chan killed herself in her cell. It was..." he blinked, his eyes closed for a second too long, "...grotesque, to say the least."

"Her suicide indicates extremism," Sherlock told them, "It's likely that she knew any information she may have recounted would likely lead to her murder. That means that the Lauter gang members are likely to meet the same fate, should they be captured by...well, whoever is after them."

"So you do think they're after Ezra's folk?"

"Of course they are. Obviously, Lauter still has a great deal of the drug in his custody, if he's been using it to take out the competition. They want it for themselves. It's not unlikely that if they find him, he fools them into testing 'T' out for themselves, but does not give them a warning of how much they will be able to ingest before dying."

"You think he's coaxing them into trying the drug, just for the fun of it?" John asked Sherlock.

He shook his head. "No...I think he offers it to them out of goodwill. I think he's inviting them to his side."

It made sense. Lauter was offering the members of the other gang safety within his own, but instead of actually accepting them, he was killing them. John looked over at Josie Thorpe. Her face was red, and her eyes were wet, but she was trying not to cry. What had her brother gotten himself into?

"What do you want us to do?" John asked the Inspector, who pulled out a set of folded maps and handed them to him.

"The circled points are the locations where we found the bodies from the opposing gang. There's evidence remaining at the red circles, but the blue circles have already been cleared. Unlikely there's anything for you to go on there." John heard Sherlock scoff quietly next to him. "After that...well, Agent Thorpe assured me that you're the best there is at this sort of thing." The Inspector was not just talking to Sherlock, he was directing his statement at John as well.

The meeting was adjourned, and John and Sherlock returned to their vehicle. "Where to first?" John asked, and Sherlock looked at the map.

"The circles are dated...they are moving up North. Probably the members from the opposing gang were travelling that day, possibly following Lauter's. We'll go to the furthest one first, then."

"You want to begin at the end?"

"It's our best bet. Why hold off the inevitable?"

John couldn't help but agree, although he felt timid about going to the most recent murder scene, particularly if members from the two gangs were within that area. He had promised Mary that he would try to remain safe, and this seemed to be a pretty risky move. With Sherlock Holmes, who ever knew how deep into a case they were going to get?

"We'll try to remain uninvolved, John," Sherlock assured him, seeming to have read his mind.

"That's what you always say."

"On the contrary: I've never said that. Perhaps it'll actually be effective."

John snorted. The game was on.

But not that night. The location they were heading towards was a dumpy motel about twelve kilometres from where they stopped at a much nicer accommodation. It was dark outside, and Sherlock had grown tired from the long drive, not to mention that the Detective Inspector and police wouldn't arrive until the next day either, so they decided to take the night to rest. John went to the front desk to book the room, and the woman he was speaking to asked how many beds they would need. John simply answered, "Two," and she gave him _that look_, but booked the room with two beds regardless. John rolled his eyes but said nothing. People assuming that he and Sherlock were more than friends was not an uncommon occurrence, after all.

John fell asleep quickly, but woke in the middle of the night to find Sherlock's lamp on next to him. The man was in his thinking position, mumbling things under his breath. "Sherlock...?" he mumbled, and the detective took notice of him.

He titled his head as if to say, _'Yes?'_

"What are you doing? What time is it?"

"Three twenty-two."

"...What's on your mind?" John knew better than to ask why Sherlock was awake in the first place. The man hardly slept as it was.

Sherlock removed his fingers from his lips. His gaze pointed towards the window as he spoke: "Perhaps we're going about this the wrong way," he said. "Perhaps we should have started closer to Dublin."

"But you said this is closest to where they'd be."

"Exactly."

John sighed. He was too tired for this. "Want to let _me _in on your little stroke of genius?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, confused. Then: "Oh! Right...I was just thinking about the possibility for error. By now Lauter has perfected his murders...perhaps the earlier locations were more spur-of-the-moment."

"But Inspector Blake told us that those places have already been opened to the public again. All the evidence is covered up by now." Sherlock raised both eyebrows at John now, indicating that he should know better. John shrugged: "Besides, we're already here."

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose so. Yes."

"Try to get some sleep," John said, only a little concerned. Mostly he just wanted Sherlock to turn his light out again. Sherlock complied and layed down in his bed. As John drifted back to sleep, he knew that Sherlock was still wide awake, running through scenarios in his head, his imagination alight with possibilities.

They started early the next morning, John taking his turn driving the car. It took them less time than expected to reach the hotel, but Agent Thorpe and the rest of the Dublin agents had already arrived. She was waiting for them, and looked better that day than she had the last.

"News?" Sherlock asked, clearly noticing her slightly more positive disposition.

"Only a bit...they wired into a mobile call between Lauter and a member of his gang. He mentioned Peter." So he was alive, John gathered.

"Any indication of Lauter's whereabouts?"

"We already sent a squad...no luck. He left his phone in a trash can out West." She brought them into the motel room they had come to investigate. Josie Thorpe looked exceeding comfortable amongst the Irish agents, having worked with them for years before she was hired by Mycroft to come to London. John felt a little guilty: guarding the Watsons wasn't her only role in Mycroft's team, but it was certainly one of her main reasons moving. He felt as though he had uprooted her from her home. When they got into the room, Sherlock sprang immediately into deduction-mode, listing off notes for anyone around him and deciphering the acute details of the murder that had taken place there. The victim (if he could be called a victim, having appeared to come from a particularly villainous gang) had been asleep when one of Lauter's men broke into the room.

"It wasn't Lauter himself?" Inspector Blake had asked Sherlock, and even John found himself reminded of Anderson, who had a wonderful ability for either stating the obvious or the completely impossible.

"Of course it wasn't him, or did you think the ringleader of this type of collective would be doing any such legwork?" John probably wouldn't have been so harsh. "Besides," Sherlock had continued, "look at the scuff marks from his shoes. Cheap loafers. Lauter's bank account-had he one-would likely be overflowing with cash. No way he'd buy those."

It turned out that Lauter had likely ordered his lackey to offer the other smuggler sanctuary within his gang, and that the man had been left alone to trip out and die. Agent Thorpe swallowed. Had it been her own brother?

"Have the room checked for fingerprints," Sherlock ordered the woman on forensics, who he actually seemed quite impressed with. Sherlock then approached the Inspector. "I need to listen to the phone call."

"We only got a snippet," the Inspector told him, seeming less than eager to share evidence. John knew that they were only there on Agent Thorpe's request, and that Inspector Blake was probably less than thrilled to be sharing the case with the world's only consulting detective...and his doctor. Still, he obliged, and they were brought to one of the on-site vans. They played the sound-byte.

_"...leave the coaches at the gate, and move down towards the warehouse. Peter will meet you inside. It will be loud, so don't fret over the sound of the engine. Sight-lines should be obscured, too..."_

"Like I said, nothing to go on there," Inspector Blake said as the clip faded into static. John could feel Sherlock tensing next to him, obviously wanting to make some sort of smart-Alec remark. John was actually a little surprised that he didn't. Perhaps, after all those years, he'd actually managed to train him into having some semblance of politeness whilst on the case. Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and John could see that he was searching through the weather websites, and then Google Maps.

"Belfast!" he finally exclaimed. "There's a woman dead in the outskirts of Belfast, likely in the abandoned shoe warehouse east of the city. It's at the bottom of a hill."

"Can't be, they found Lauter's mobile in Sligo." Sherlock took a deep breath, but still somehow kept his insults to himself.

"Ezra Lauter was making the call from elsewhere, obviously-he's probably travelling north through the West side of the country, rather than the East like the other gang-but the dead man is absolutely in Sligo."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Coach!" Sherlock hissed, and John was reminded of 'A Study in Pink.' Inspector Blake shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. Sherlock sighed, now exasperated, and looked to John. "Coach, John. Do _you _see?"

John Watson had been well-trained under the watchful eye (well, perhaps that was an understatement) of Sherlock Holmes, and he searched his mind for what he might have meant. He thought back to the phone message:

_"...leave the coaches at the gate..."_

_ "...the coaches at the gate..."_

_ "...coaches..."_

And then, finally:

"..._**C**__oaches..."_

John clapped his hands together. "The boots!"

Blake rolled his eyes. "What boots?"

"The Coach boots," John informed him. "It was raining in Belfast last night, and he'd have had to trek through the bushes to get to the warehouse, since it was so far out of town. Lauter provided him with a pair of rain boots." John looked to Sherlock for confirmation. The right side of the detective's mouth was subtly upturned, and John couldn't help feeling a bit proud of himself.

"How the hell'd you get all that?"

Sherlock explained, "Rain would defeat the sound of a helicopter engine. The warehouse roof fell in years ago, they were going to fly out of it into the hills-hence the obscured sight-lines. That makes the boots rather obvious, don't you think?" The Inspector looked like he was about to ask, _'How?'_, but Sherlock had already continued: "Coach is a particularly pricey brand. He gave our victim the boots as part of the goodwill package, to show her just how glamourous a life with his gang can be. Probably when she reached Peter inside the warehouse, she was offered the 'T'."

"How do you know it's a woman?"

"What would a man care for a fancy pair of rain boots?" Sherlock scoffed. "Honestly, did you think he was referring to a horse-drawn carriage?" John sighed. Same old Sherlock.

The Inspector seemed simultaneously impressed and insulted by Sherlock's deductions, but he seemed to agree with them. "We're off to Belfast, then?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

"And...you're coming, are you?" He seemed less than eager to have them.

"If you'll have us."

Inspector Blake left the vehicle, heading back to the motel room, probably to prepare transportation for them to get to Belfast with the rest of the squad. As he opened the door, John could make-out Agent Thorpe inside, still looking as bright as she had earlier.

"She'll be disappointed," John heard Sherlock tell him, again able to read his thoughts.

"Yeah, well...maybe Peter didn't give the woman any drugs. Maybe she really did-"

"-John, she's not alive. Ezra Lauter is trying to destroy his competition, not convert them."

John sighed. "How is it that one sibling can be so good, while the other can murder someone?"

Sherlock simply shrugged in response, and started playing the sound-byte over and over as they awaited their travel details.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Notes: **Dear me, you people are amazing! Amazing! Completely. This chapter was extremely difficult to write, since I had to come up with the mystery and clues, but it was certainly very rewarding and interesting to get into the mind of Sherlock Holmes (and John Watson, for that matter!) while he was on the case. Thank you for everything, and please keep reading and enjoying! And please keep sending me your thoughts and reviews. They are food for writers!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-One<strong>

They were in Belfast by the afternoon, and just as Sherlock had predicted, a woman was found in the centre of the abandoned shoe warehouse.

The area outside the warehouse was still wet, and it was difficult to walk through the mud. Sherlock walked back and forth between their car and the building multiple times regardless, his entire lower half stained with mud before he finally allowed himself inside the warehouse. Sherlock wasted no time at all in racing to her body to fully inspect the scene. It was not unlike the others-the woman had taken an over dosage of the drug and died, her corpse curled up into the foetal position. But there was something unique about her, or so John could tell from the inquisitive look on Sherlock's face as he inspected her hands. He waited until the forensics team had congregated on their own, to deliberate, before crouching down next to Sherlock.

"Something off?"

Sherlock lifted the woman's left hand off the ground. "Look at her fingernails."

John did as he was told, and listed off his observations, as he had been trained to. "Clean-the polish is chipped a bit on the ring finger, probably he took a wedding ring off her after she died."

"Good." Sherlock seemed genuinely pleased with John's last deduction. "What else?"

Subtly chuffed, John continued to look at her left hand, but he could find nothing else of value about it. The skin was clean, if a little chapped from the cold, and it didn't look as if she had done any scratching, something that many overdose victims did as they died. Taking her hand from Sherlock's grasp, he brought it closer to his face and flipped her palm. Scratches. He lifted her sleeve. Sherlock hummed quietly-proudly? More scratches. John replaced her arm onto the floor and then took her right hand. All of the nails were chipped, and there was blood underneath them. This hand had clearly been under great distress. John thought through all of the possible reasons for one hand to be perfectly neat while the other showed all the signs of a dead drug addict. "Her left hand was restrained?" he guessed, shrugging.

"Restrained? You think?" Sherlock was playing coy. John was a little frustrated, but flattered none the less. Sherlock had often asked for John's input in cases, but only recently was he really giving John the chance to come up with the answers or make the deductions. Once, a few cases earlier, Sherlock had allowed John to drag him halfway across London on a whim that ended up being completely incorrect-which Sherlock had, of course, known all along, though he never admitted it. Sherlock went on. "There's one more discrepancy. A _big _one."

John stared at the corpse, starting with her hands, then her arms, then her mouth...there's was nothing else that was unusual there. So, he moved on to her torso. A few scratches on her chest, near her neck. Standard. Her legs...her pants were worn, probably from her writhing on the ground. And they were muddy, obviously. Her feet were safe, tucked into her boots-

"She was supposed to leave the boots outside."

"What does that mean?"

"She didn't want to walk in sock-feet through the mud? What do you mean, what does that-oh." Suddenly, it was clear. "She didn't come in here on her own accord."

Sherlock didn't grin, but his eyes shone at John. "The footprints had been washed away, but there was a clearing-a path-which means that multiple people made the trip into the warehouse at once. And there was a definite clearing for some sort of vehicle, probably from what Peter intended to be the getaway car."

"He was planning a getaway?"

"You were right, John. Peter Thorpe didn't kill this woman. He likely met her at the gate, before she got to the warehouse, and tried to get her into the car. Of course, it doesn't seem like they made it."

John looked at the woman's hand. Pristine, as if it had been covered, guarded from the rest of her dying discomfort. "He held her hand as she died." Sherlock nodded.

"Does that mean he's dead, too?"

"Hard to tell. If they killed him, they certainly don't want us to know about it."

"Why not?" Sherlock's eyes darted towards the door of the warehouse, where Agent Josie Thorpe was pacing, obviously nervous. John followed his gaze, and all of a sudden, he was able to make another amazing deduction: "They want us to find him."

"No. They want us to look for him. That way, they're the ones who will find us."

"They're setting a trap."

Sherlock stood and started looking around the room, probably for some clue as to where they were heading. "They've left us something..." John heard him mumble. Still searching, he motioned for John to fill in Inspector Blake, which he did.

"All right, I'll call S.W.A.T.," the Inspector decided, but Sherlock did not seem impressed.

"Cargo," he complained. "They'll just get in the way. We don't even know where were headed yet!"

"As if you don't know exactly where Lauter's gang is hiding, Mr. Holmes." The Inspector was clearly fed up with Sherlock's arrogance, but John couldn't feel bad for him. He agreed with Sherlock. Yes, they were walking straight into a trap, but bringing an army would just cause confusion. Perhaps it was the soldier in him, but he knew that their small team could take out this gang on their own. They had the manpower, and more importantly, they had the brains. Sure, this Ezra Lauter seemed to have a master-plan of his own, but John Watson had been on stranger cases and in more dangerous battles, and they had almost always come out on top. No, Sherlock was definitely right.

"This is good, Inspector. Lauter will be in custody by morning."

"How can you be sure of that?"

John shrugged. "Because we know what he's planning. We're one-up on him."

Sherlock was grinning openly now-probably not appropriately, but that was his way. "And anyway, how many men do you think he has, if he has to resort to using his lowest level officers to take out the other gang?"

Blake considered the situation. He turned from John and Sherlock and walked over to Agent Thorpe, who watched them as he filled her in. Eventually, she looked him in the eye and nodded. He returned. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock's grin lessened slightly. "Send your forensics team home, Inspector. We're going into town."

Blake frowned. "They're here?"

"Helicopter never took off, there wasn't one here at all. Ask the local police station if there are any out-of-the-ordinary vehicles around, particularly at motels or hostels."

"They'd all be out-of-the-ordinary!"

"This one especially. It's oversized, probably a shockingly bright colour. Lauter is kitschy."

This made even John curious. "How do you know that?"

Sherlock pointed back to the corpse. "The choice of boots." John knew better than to argue. The forensics team left, and as did many members of the local force, on Sherlock's request. Inspector Blake didn't seem to like feeling outnumbered, but Sherlock assured him that he wasn't. By the end, they were left with eight: John, Sherlock, Agent Thorpe, Inspector Blake, Chief Vukson and three officers-all but John were armed.

They hopped into two vehicles after the Chief of Police received a call telling them that a car with their description had turned up in front of the local Bed and Breakfast, and that no one had been seen exiting the building since that morning. Sherlock was sure it was the right place. One of the local officers drove the car with Agent Thorpe in the passenger's seat, and John and Sherlock were in the back. They parked in front of the little house. John's heart stood still: he was actually nervous. Who knew what they were going to find? Would they be attacked? Would they talk it through? It was definitely a trap of some sort, but in what way? They were about to open their doors when Josie stopped them. She opened the front compartment of the car and pulled out a spare hand gun, giving it to John.

"If my brother's in there, I want him to have the best possible chance."

The officer next to her seemed uncomfortable with her gesture, since obviously she had no right to be giving weapons to civilians. However, he made no effort to stop her, clearly also afraid of what they might find when they entered the building. John said nothing, but gladly took the gun, feeling a little more comfortable now that he was armed. Sherlock counted them down, and they all got out of the car simultaneously.

Nothing happened. And then, the door cracked open.

"I wasn't expecting you to figure it out so soon," a voice called out through the cracks. It was so calm...too calm? No. There was the tiniest pang of fear, the one that John could hear better than Sherlock could without actually being able to see the speaker. Inspector Blake answered:

"Ezra Lauter, you and any members of your gang are under arrest. Come out now, unarmed, and you will be taken to the station as quickly and pain-free as possible."

Silence. The door opened further. Peter Thorpe stepped out, his hands in the air.

"Peter..." John heard Josie whisper, a tremble in her voice. Something was wrong with this.

One of the officers ran to collect Peter. He threw his arms around the young man and rushed him back behind his squad car. They were safe. Josie's gaze kept travelling back and forth from the now open doorway to her brother. John eyed the man: he was young, almost too young to be the brother of a woman John's age. She probably felt more like a mother to him than a sister, a common occurrence with such a wide age-gap. He looked terrified, as if he'd just seen a ghost. John looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be inspecting Peter as closely as he had been. His clothes were extremely baggy, oddly so for a member of such a high-class gang...it was Sherlock who screamed what they were both thinking.

"He's wearing a bomb!"

The team members who were behind the other squad car with Peter Thorpe immediately raced away from him, finding hiding spots behind other vehicles or even trees. Inspector Blake, though, stayed with him, and opened his jacket to reveal a single digital clock-face. They had twelve minutes left. It was nothing like Moriarty's extensive bomb-work, but it was certainly enough to take out their half of the street if it blew while Peter was so close to the car. John was thankful that there were no residential buildings on the street, only empty store fronts. Inspector Blake reached out towards Peter, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't touch it! It's extremely sensitive." John didn't know if they should run or not, but Sherlock was staying put. They weren't that far from Peter Thorpe, and if he blew, they were done-for.

"Sherlock..." he mumbled, but Sherlock lifted his hand in front of John to shut him up.

"What do you want from us?" he yelled into the Bed and Breakfast. Ezra Lauter's voice came through.

"We would appreciate your assistance."

"Assistance with what?" This time it was Inspector Blake asking the questions, to Sherlock's obvious annoyance.

"Michael Kipp."

There was silence everywhere. It was Agent Josie Thorpe who seemed to figure it out. "He's the leader of your rivals, isn't he?"

"Send in your best negotiator!" It was an order. Inspector Blake was already heading towards the house with his hands in the air when Sherlock called him to their car. Peter Thorpe was still cowering behind the other vehicle, looking guiltily at his sister. Blake reached their car. "This is _my _case, _I'm _going in." Sherlock sighed.

"What do you think they'll want to negotiate? They want us to catch Kipp's gang and let them go free!"

"Well then, we'll just have to give that to them."

"Are you an imbecile?" Sherlock was hugely frustrated. "You want to work with these...these criminals?" John was a little surprised by Sherlock's reaction to the whole matter. Years earlier, he might have actually played the game. Worked with Lauter to catch Kipp, and then use his cleverness to get to Lauter in the end as well. But Sherlock Holmes, who was forty-four years old, was done with games. He turned to Agent Thorpe. "You need to go in. Tell them we'll let them go in exchange for Peter."

"So we are just letting them go?" Blake whined. "At least my way we'll catch one gang!"

"There is no other gang!" Even John was confused. Sherlock explained. "It's only Kipp now. The woman in the warehouse was his final ally. He's alone."

"You mean, Lauter killed them all? There weren't enough-"

"-A crime ring doesn't have to be huge to be powerful. Lauter was just_ more _powerful."

John furrowed his brows at Sherlock. "How do you know the woman in the barn was Kipp's last ally?"

Sherlock looked exasperated. "It was his wife." He then turned to Agent Thorpe. "You'll go in, and you'll give them the ring."

"What ring?" Josie asked. Her eyes were wet with fear, but she did not cry.

"Peter has it. The dead woman's wedding ring. Tell Lauter and whoever is with him that he can have it in exchange for disarming the bomb on your brother. You'll escort one of his men out to do so."

"Why does he want to the ring?" John asked this time.

"He thinks he can use it to barter with Kipp. Or, at least entice him to come to him on his own accord." Sherlock gazed at Josie steadily. "Do you understand what you need to do?"

Josie nodded, bewildered. "I think so..."

"Good. Get the ring."

"Hold on one second!" Inspector Blake looked furious. "Who are you to-?"

"I'm your best chance at beating this. Trust me."

John watched through the car windows as Agent Thorpe crossed the space between the two vehicles and made it to her brother, Peter, who was sobbing loudly. He couldn't hear the conversation between the siblings, but it wasn't long before she had the ring in her hand and was taking it into the building, her arms above her head. Then they waited. Sherlock was still eyeing Peter Thorpe, his fingers tapping at his thigh at the passing of each second. With only four minutes left, Agent Thorpe was coming out of the building, another surprisingly young man in her wake. He went to Peter and started fiddling with the bomb-work until the clock shut off, and he removed it from his body. Josie took her finally free brother into her arms and held him before opening the squad car door and placing him inside. She knelt behind the car as Lauter's man started to make his way back inside the house. Then Sherlock did something completely irrational. He leapt out from behind their car and grabbed hold of the man, dragging him back with them. "He's unarmed!" Sherlock was telling them as one of the officers searched him. "Get down!"

He was right to yell that when he did, because bullets started coming from the house, taking out the car windows. John was kneeling down, holding his gun at the ready, shooting back occasionally. A yell from inside and a pause between bullets told him that he had hit one of the shooters. But his eye was resting on Agent Thorpe, who was holding onto her brother's hand through a crack in the back door of the other car. He waved his arm at her, indicating that she should get into the car and drive away to safety, and she looked as if she was about to do so, but not before her brother tumbled out of the vehicle. He had been shot through one of the windows. Then, she stood up and started shooting at the house, completely exposed to their bullets. She was amazing-absolutely incredible. Three shots and then all was quiet. John heard Sherlock breath a sigh of relief.

"It's just Lauter now," he whispered.

"Is he armed?" Inspector Blake asked him, and Sherlock scoffed.

"How should I know?"

Blake rolled his eyes, but motioned for the other officers to join him in rushing the house. Within the span of a few minutes, they were dragging a cuffed Ezra Lauter into their squad car and sending him off to jail. Once he was sure they were in the clear, John raced over to where Josie was bent over her brother, holding onto his hands and crying softly. He had been shot, yes, but he was still conscious. Pulling apart the man's shirt, he inspected the wound. It was close to his shoulder, and it didn't appear as if the bullet had made contact with any important arteries. "You're going to be fine, just hold on," he told the man. It was bad bedside manner to promise a patient that they would be unscathed, but John was confident that Peter Thorpe would, in fact, be quite alright, despite the fact that he would likely spend a great deal of time in jail. John's words seemed to sooth Josie significantly. "Thank you..." she whispered, but couldn't continue through her tears. John couldn't help feeling a bit proud of the woman, who had been through so much, yet still managed enough bravery to walk into a strange building filled with murderous gang members in order to save her family.

As the paramedics were getting Peter into the ambulance, John waited with Josie. "You did really well out there," he told her, deservedly. She gave a small smile.

"I was too reckless. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"You're human."

She laughed. "You're a lot better than Blake," she told John, giving the Detective Inspector a glare from afar. "He would have said it's because I'm a woman."

John got a bad taste in his mouth for Inspector Blake. "Is that why you left?"

Josie shrugged. "I met Mycroft shortly after my husband died. He was a police officer, my husband, here in Dublin as well. You could say we had a pretty straight laced household." She grinned as she spoke, indicating that while their family was quite military, it was happy and safe. It didn't surprise John: Nathaniel was always extremely well-behaved when he came over to visit Anthony, and he seemed to be the one who kept the other kids in line without harassing or annoying them. When the kids went out into town to play, he always felt a little safer knowing that Nate was with them. Josie went on: "There was a case here, something to do with a Government official, and...it didn't go well. Mycroft looked after us, made sure we turned out alright. Nate was seven. I couldn't work after that, I had to stay home and look after Nate...and I was pregnant at the time."

John knew that Nate was without a father, but he never thought of the possibility that his dad had died in action. "I'm sorry, I-"

"It's alright. It was a long time ago." Josie watched as her brother was lifted into the ambulance. It was almost time to leave. "Laura will be six soon. Anyway, a few years later I got a call from Mycroft, asking if I was looking for a job. I helped out on a few cases-like Los Angeles-and then Mycroft offered me a full-time position. He promised that he would see that the kids were looked after, but that it would be easier to do so if I moved to London. It wasn't something I could pass up. I missed working, and I hated feeling like I was just taking Mycroft's money."

"He probably wouldn't have minded." John knew Mycroft would never admit it, but he was one of the most generous men in England.

Josie grinned. "That's probably true. It was just my pride, I guess." One of the paramedics leaned out of the vehicle and told Josie that it was time to leave, if she wanted to stay with her brother. John held out his hand to her.

"I really do mean it: you did great tonight."

She took his hand, smiling gratefully, and said: "Thank you so much for coming. I don't know what we would have done without you...and him." She tilted her head towards Sherlock, who seemed to be bickering with Inspector Blake. John couldn't help chuckling with her as he helped her into the ambulance. Before the doors closed, he yelled into the vehicle:

"By the way, Mary wanted to do a drinks thing with the neighbours!"

"I'll be there!" she called back to him, and then she drove away with her brother, John happy that everything was turning out alright for the Thorpe family.

A helicopter took John and Sherlock back to Dublin, where there was a late-night meeting to discuss the case. It was decided that they would continue the search for Michael Kipp, but without help from the consulting detective and his doctor. Sherlock didn't seem too offended, although he did arrogantly explain to them that if Kipp wanted to fall off of their radar, he could easily do so, especially without any more followers to lead them to him. Inspector Blake looked like he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the statement.

"By the way, may I see the ring?" Sherlock requested as they were leaving. A member of the forensics team brought it out to him. It was a silver band-an unusual colour for a ring, John noted-and it had a massive diamond. "Yes, definitely Kipp's wife," Sherlock decided as he handed it back to them. Blake politely escorted Sherlock and John to a cab outside of the station, thanking them for all of their help. As soon as they were in the cab, John finally felt able to ask everything that had been on his mind.

"How d'you know Kipp's alone now?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "His wife left him. Obviously, it came down to the wire, and she was trying to make her escape before she got caught with him."

"She was his last ally."

"Yes. And now he has no one. He'll probably fade out into obscurity for a while as he tries to rebuild some sort of empire. Ideally the Yard will catch him before he's able to do so."

"Think they will?" John asked, yawning. It was well past midnight. Sherlock simply scoffed. Obviously not.

They reached Harry's house, and John felt a little guilty for waking her. Her girlfriend had returned home by then, and she offered them tea before bed. John and Sherlock both declined, exhausted, and slept on the couches in the living room. The next morning, it was Anthony who was waking them. He demanded to hear all about the case, and it was Sherlock who told him the entire tale. Anthony was fiddling with his necklace of keys as he listened, something he often did when he was thinking about detectives and mysteries. It was like Sherlock's gifts inspired him, and reminded him to look for clues. After breakfast, John said goodbye to his sister.

"He's a wonderful boy, Johnny," Harry sweetly told her brother, hugging him. John eyed his sister, proud of her. She had worked so hard to beat her addiction, and it was nice to know that she was ready to have a real relationship with her brother. He would have to call her more often.

The plane ride back to England was not quite as mortifying for Sherlock as the flight to Dublin, but there was a great deal of turbulence, causing the man to receive a great deal of awkward looks from the other passengers. John's arm was sore by landing. John offered to drive Sherlock back to 221B, but for some reason he wanted to see to it that the Watsons got home safely that night, probably since he knew that Agent Thorpe was still in Ireland with her brother.

When they got to the house, Sherlock took it upon himself to collect the now sleeping Anthony in his arms and take him to the house. John unlocked the door.

"Odd-she doesn't usually leave the lights on."

The kitchen light hadn't been turned off, and Mary was meant to be out of the house until the next evening. John looked at Sherlock, who was observing the landing room. His face was absent of any emotion, which John took as a confirmation of normalcy. Sherlock carried Anthony up the stairs as John went back to the car to collect their bags. It did seem strange for Mary to leave the house the way it was. He could even see that the bathroom light on the second level was on. He brought the bags into the house and took them up to his bedroom, handing Sherlock his own pack as they crossed on the staircase. After tossing his laundry into the bin and taking his nightly peek into Anthony's room, he went back down the stairs to say goodnight to Sherlock. He wasn't in the foyer. John checked the kitchen, but he wasn't there either, so he walked over to the living room.

Oh yes, Sherlock was there, and so was Mary. She must have come home early, but she hadn't greeted them when they came in. John was about to greet her, or ask what had happened to bring her home early, but upon further inspection he could see that she was in no state to chat.

She was dressed in sweats, her hair loose around her face, and she was sitting on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest and her hands grasping her ankles. She had clearly been crying. Sherlock had taken a seat next to her, eyeing her carefully, but not saying a word. John couldn't speak either, his worry having taken over that ability. She looked exhausted, but not sick-had there been some sort of tragedy? She wouldn't look at him, she simply stared out over her knees, blinking absently every so often. And Sherlock just gazed at her, waiting for some indication that she knew they had come in.

Finally, she turned her head, but not to John. She looked back at Sherlock, and John could finally see her full face. Defeated. Sherlock tilted his head at her, prompting her to say something, but instead she just shook her own head. Then Sherlock did the unthinkable: he reached his arm around her shoulders and drew her down onto his lap as if it were a pillow, where she began to silently sob into his knees. Sherlock looked at John, and he appeared sympathetic. It wasn't long before Mary had picked herself up and stood. She went to leave, but John met her in the doorway.

"I just...I can't..." she looked at Sherlock, mutely.

"I'll tell him," he said, nodding at her. She finally looked at John, the tears still on her cheeks. He gently wiped them away.

"It's alright," he soothed, not knowing what else he could tell her. "Whatever it is, it's okay." She bit her lip and ran from him, racing up the stairs. John was shaken, and he walked into the living room, sitting opposite Sherlock, who had crossed his hands in his lap and was looking both back at John, and straight through him. "You know what's wrong?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Tell me." There was no question in John's voice, no request. It was a definite order.

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm trying to find a way to put it...delicately."

"No." John was in no mood for _'delicate'_. Something was wrong. Something was bad. Had someone died? Was Mary sick? "Just...say it."

And Sherlock complied. "John, I'm so sorry. Mary's pregnant."


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes: ** Thank you for everything, for all your reviews and generous messages. Please enjoy and send me all your thoughts.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Two<strong>

Mary Alexandra Watson was accustomed to doctors-her husband was one, for goodness sakes. But that didn't mean she liked hospitals, which was where she spent most of her time for the next two months of her life.

When John, Sherlock and Anthony had gone to Ireland for the weekend at the end of summer, she had told her husband that she was visiting her parents. It was true: Mary had gone for a day, but hadn't spent the night, worried that her morning sickness might give her away to her mother. She went home that night, and to the nearest clinic the next afternoon, after the unsurprising morning sickness had passed. She was a little surprised that Sherlock hadn't figured out she was pregnant before leaving, but his head was in the case, or perhaps in his nervousness about the flying. It was the doctor at the clinic who confirmed her pregnancy, and Mary wasn't taking it well.

She tried to go home. She went up to her room and changed into her sweats, ready to spend the rest of the day relaxing on the couch. But she was too wired to sit. What if the doctor had been wrong? It was unlikely...but she needed more proof. Mary went to the drugstore, still in her sweats, and bought a pregnancy test. The teenage boy at the counter gave her a judgemental look. Was it the sweats or her age? It didn't matter. She took the test home and stared at it for hours. She forced herself to eat something before finally she couldn't handle the waiting any longer. She took the test.

Positive.

She threw it out. She walked down the stairs and sat on the couch, her gaze fixed on the television for at least half and hour before she realized that it wasn't turned on. And then the lights were flashing through the window, and the car was pulling up in front of the house. Her boys were home, but she didn't register their arrival. She didn't even know what time it was. She could hear John's voice questioning the lights she had left on. She froze. How could she tell John? She was forty-four years old. Too old. They couldn't have expected it. She should have been more careful, should have considered the consequences...she was going to lose it again. Another ray of hope to be dashed, just as it had been all those years earlier. It was all her fault.

And then there was a warmth next to her. It wasn't John's warmth...that was different. He would have taken her hand, stroked her cheek, and asked what was wrong. This warmth, however, just sat with her. Waited with her. Sherlock knew, of course he knew. Or he'd seen. He'd seen the haphazard way she'd cleaned her dishes but not the knife she had used to spread the peanut butter-a hormonal craving-and left it in the sink. He'd seen her purse, slung over the banister-something John hadn't noticed-when she came back from the drugstore. He'd seen the rubbish bin in the bathroom, and the test-positive-tucked into the side. And he observed her, probably reading her face or taking her measurements, making all the right deductions. Yes, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what was wrong.

And Sherlock Holmes was her friend. Not her husband, not the man she was about to hurt...Sherlock was a good friend. She could still recall when they first met: she was determined for the man to like her, and she was equally determined to like him. How could she not? The man meant so much to her husband. He was family. But she discovered quite quickly that Sherlock did not grow attached to people in the usual way that people made friends. It wasn't that he didn't like her, it was just that, at first, she was extra. She was an accessory to John, the person in Sherlock's life that he would do anything for. She mattered to John, and because of that, she mattered to Sherlock.

But she could also remember when all of that changed. It hadn't taken long. Slowly but surely, Sherlock began to see Mary as less of an acquaintance, and more as someone he could trust. Occasionally, she acted as a maternal figure to the man, despite being younger than him. But at the same time, he had begun chatting with her while John was absent. Eventually, she became a sort of confidant for the man, who was well-aware of her ability to see things about him that he couldn't pick out himself. And over the years, his trust for her had become admiration, the same admiration she held for him. A mutual respect. They were not only family: they were friends. Mary had entered Sherlock's exclusive circle of people he regarded more highly than anyone else in the world. His love for Mary required no reciprocation, but he had it anyway. Mary had always adored Sherlock, and she always trusted him.

Which was why, in that moment, he was the only person she could confide in. She looked at him, his face begging the question, _'Are you alright?' _She shook her head. No. No, she was not alright. She wasn't ready for this. This was wrong. It was all wrong.

And she knew that Sherlock was shocking himself as much her when he reached out to her. It was an instinctual response. Had he learned it from John, who knew the power of touch better than Sherlock did? Perhaps. But if John had pulled her into him, and had offered her _his _knees to cry into, it wouldn't have had the same effect as Sherlock Holmes doing it. Him holding her made it real. He recognized the exact level of _'not alright' _she was experiencing, and that was what made her respond. He had his hand rested squarely on the small of her back, supporting her steadily as she sobbed. But John was watching, and he was probably worrying. It wasn't fair to make him worry.

But she couldn't say it. She was too ashamed. Her husband tried to hold her, tried to comfort her, but she couldn't bring herself to hurt him so much. So, she begged Sherlock for his help, and he complied, generously. He was strong enough to do what she couldn't, and John _had _to know.

She ran to her room, fleeing from the guilt, but she couldn't escape it. She looked into Anthony's room before going to her own bed. Her son, so peaceful. He couldn't know. Couldn't even understand. Mary rested her head on her pillow and tried to find some calm. It never came. She curled up and the tears came again, dampening her pillowcase and interfering with the silence of the house. Eventually, she could hear the door down the stairs closing softly as Sherlock left, and the footsteps of her husband coming up those same stairs to where she was laying. He lifted the covers and crawled into bed behind her, where he always slept. He reached his arm around her waist. She didn't turn over as she usually did, to sleep with her head in his chest. She stayed as still as possible. She heard him sigh as he brought his hand up to her head, stroking her hair and kissing her behind the ear.

"We'll get through this," he soothed. He was trying so hard to be calm for her.

"I'm so sorry..." she mumbled, her voice breaking.

"No..." Always, his fingers ran through her curls. "My beautiful girl, there is nothing to be sorry for..." God, he loved her so much.

The next morning, Anthony was returning to school. He was excited, and Mary feigned joy for his sake, pretending that nothing was wrong. Her boy was on his way to becoming a young man. When he left on the bus, John wasted no time in telling Mary his action plan. She had expected nothing less from her husband, who was always so determined to remedy a situation. But, while she admired his tenacity, his ideas were exactly what she had been fearing all along.

She was in the hospital multiple times per week. Doctors poked at her, prodded at her with x-rays and invaded her body with drugs. All the vitamins, all the resting, all the nurses...Mary hated all of it. But John was determined for this...this baby...to live. Determined for everything to turn out alright. His determination made her sick. It wasn't because she wanted to lose the baby: no, she prayed every night that they would find themselves with another child, another vessel to pour their love into. But what John didn't have-or what he appeared not to have-was that feeling of inevitability. Three weeks into the hospital visits, she brought up just that.

"I'm forty-four, John. I was too old before, and I'm still too old now."

"No. We can do this," he had responded. He was hearing, but he wasn't listening.

Every fibre of Mary's being wanted to beg her husband for freedom. Freedom from the doctors, from the needles, and from the fighting. The constant fighting that did nothing but remind her of the soldier her husband had been. She loved that about him, but what he did not see was how much it was hurting her. She knew that they were facing defeat, and it made her feel so guilty. She had already given up. If they lost, it would be her fault for not trying hard enough. But she just couldn't find the drive to fight anymore. She had lost that will. John was spending all the time in the world with her, but still he couldn't see her defeat.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, could. He was trying his best to help. He provided a distraction for Anthony, who was too old for a babysitter, but young enough to still appreciate the visits from his Godfather. Anthony still went to Sherlock's flat to use the telescope, or to practice for his science class. Mary was grateful for Sherlock's help, but mostly she was grateful for the way he would glance at John and smile sadly at her, both of them confiding in each other the knowledge that John was about to have his heart broken. Sherlock was the only one that understood her guilt, and at the same time, he never judged her for her will to rest. He could see that the fight was dead inside of her, and that she just wanted to go on normally. It was little things, like letting her venture to the kitchen to collect a tray of tea and biscuits, despite John's insistence that she simply sit around and let him wait on her. Sherlock saw the frustration in her eyes every time John did something for her, and it was his understanding that gave Mary a little strength.

Not that she wasn't grateful to John, either. He was doing the best he could, too. He was the best man Mary had in her life, one that she was most loved by, and one of two that she loved the most, tied only with her son. She had lost the will to fight, but John kept fighting for her. Sometimes he fought so hard that she would actually start to have a little faith. Sometimes she found herself daydreaming of their new child and the joy it would bring them. But there was always that little voice in her mind that told her it was impossible.

It was the waiting that hurt the most. Which was what made her so grateful that the Universe gave them their answer in a charitable eight weeks.

She was home alone that night. Anthony was staying over at his friend Adam's house and John was hours away on a house call. He hated leaving her, and had called her three times already to see that she was doing well. They had gone to the hospital that morning. The doctor said that everything was normal. They had even gotten an ultrasound, taking a peek at the tiny seed growing inside of her. She had actually gone to bed quite comfortably, nothing but her bizarre cravings keeping her up. But she did drift off to sleep, and she stayed that way for quite a while before her dreams became nightmares. When she awoke, she knew exactly what was wrong.

She called John. What else could she do? He was already in the car by the time he picked up, but he was still such a long time away. She hung up on her end, insisting that he focus on driving, leaving her alone in her bed. She curled up on herself, the way she had the night she discovered her pregnancy. The same way she had years earlier, in a hospital bed, her husband holding onto her hands as they lost their precious gift. Mary did not cry this time, though. She was too weak to cry. She should have called the hospital, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. She would be fine, physically, at least. Her soul, on the other hand.

But she had expected this. It wasn't a surprise. It had been inevitable. Her fate was sealed from that first morning she woke up and found herself slung over the toilet, losing her breakfast. It was another loss, another tragedy. She just wished she didn't have to face it by herself.

And she didn't. At first she thought it was John, that she had drifted back to sleep and was waking up to the sound of him racing in the front door and slamming it behind him as he rushed up the stairs. But those weren't his shoes. It might have been paramedics, but why would there only be one, and wouldn't it take longer to get the gurney through the door? It wasn't until the stranger had reached her doorway that she deduced who had come, and he hadn't come to rescue her:

Sherlock Holmes had simply come to be with her.

"You don't have to do this," she mumbled as he arranged pillows behind her pack, sitting her steadily up against them. He didn't say anything, and for that Mary would be eternally grateful. He brought her a glass of water. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew that she was in danger of dehydration. At first Mary wondered where the paramedics were. John must have called them. It wasn't until the next week that a meaningful look from Sherlock told her the entire story. John had called Mycroft, who had informed Sherlock, who had requested for Mary to left alone by the hospitals. John would have seen her taken to Mycroft's secret facility and placed under intensive medical care, but Sherlock knew how little Mary would have wanted that. He had rescued her in so many ways during her life, and still that small courtesy ranked among his highest gifts to Mary Watson.

Sherlock, to his credit, never spoke to her that night, but after he was finished tucking a blanket on top of her and ridding her hands of empty cup of water she had finished, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her and watched her, his gaze sturdy, feeding her strength. Their breathing synchronized, and as the physical pain started, Sherlock reached out and grasped Mary's hand. She squeezed it tightly, feeling selfish for doing so, but he never pulled away. It wasn't too long before the pain faded away, and Mary was left with that feeling of lethargy. Sherlock drew his feet onto the bed and moved closer to her, still holding her hand. She fell onto his chest and he draped his free arm around her shoulders, his hand resting in that place on the small of her back. That touch, combined with his strong stillness, comforted Mary the way nothing else could have in that moment. It was the sensation of total understanding, total trust, and if John couldn't make it back in Mary's time of need, she was grateful that Sherlock Holmes had. He had saved her, not only from dehydration or paramedics, but from her loneliness.

The paramedics did come, of course, bounding in behind John as he arrived at the house. He paused when he saw the scene, Sherlock holding his wife, but there was no jealousy in his stare. Guilt, perhaps, but also gratitude. Instead of lifting Mary into his arms and carrying her to the ambulance, he helped her to her feet. That was how Mary knew that John was finally seeing what she had known all along, and that he was allowing her to keep her pride within the horrible scene.

She was taken to Mycroft's facility rather than a public hospital. It wasn't necessary, and she didn't feel that she deserved the special treatment, but she appreciated the privacy. Being in the secret hospital also allowed her to have John there with her through the entire experience, not limiting them to standard visiting hours or rules. It allowed John to be in the room while the doctors hooked an IV into her arm so he could distract her from her fear of needles, the same fear she had been ignoring for weeks so her husband could keep his tiny bit of hope. He did leave her though, on her insistence that he eat something and rest somewhere, the morning quick to be upon them. He kissed her on the cheek and allowed her some time of her own to drift back off to sleep. Before she fell into her slumber, though, she could see Sherlock meeting John outside the room through the window. He pulled the shorter man into a hug, something Sherlock never did. Mary almost found herself laughing at how strange it looked, Sherlock awkwardly only using one arm and John appearing not to know where to place his. But the companionship was clear, and the comfort that the embrace brought John was evident. The two men were more than friends, they were brothers, solidifying Sherlock as a member of their family.

Sherlock Holmes was family to Mary Watson, and he had provided her with exactly what she needed in her eight weeks of pain. For that, she would be eternally grateful, especially since she would always feel undeserving of Sherlock's generosity. What she didn't realize was that, in Sherlock mind, he was repaying a debt to Mary, who had opened her arms to him always. Mary, who was a beacon of light in the darkest times, and who could see through him in ways he could never figure out on his own. Mary was as much a friend to Sherlock as he was to her. No, she more than that. She was his family, and they would always be there for one another.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes: **That last chapter was immensely difficult to write, but ended up being incredibly rewarding. It was so nice to write Mary and her relationship with John and Sherlock, even though I was putting them through such a hard time. This chapter is going to catch up a bit with Anthony and get back into our regular fare. Thanks so much to everyone who story alerted and faved, and especially to those who reviewed. It means so much to me to get a chance to hear your thoughts.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Three<strong>

It took John a while to find peace after that night, but as the weeks wore on, his devastation faded until he could feel comfortable in his old routine again. He went to work, and he came home every day as early as he could so he wouldn't miss dinner. Anthony still ate with him and Mary at the table, and John thrived on hearing about their days. He would occasionally tell his own tales from the clinic, but he preferred listening to his family. Now and then Sherlock would stop by for dinner, never eating, but filling John in on his cases and adventures. On weekends, John would join Sherlock, but they rarely had anything quite as exciting as the classic cases, or even as good as Ireland. Still, it was a fulfilling life for John Watson.

Anthony was doing very well in school. He was in Year Eight, and all of his teachers were very impressed with him, although they would still occasionally worry about the fact that he didn't seem to have any friends in his class. John never worried, though, because Anthony had wonderful, close friends-they were just older than him. Anthony didn't seem bothered by his classmates, who didn't bully him anymore, but certainly paid him no attention. He was extremely studious, and had even told his father that having mates in his class would simply be a distraction for him. It was best to keep his studies at school and his friends at home.

John remembered fondly a day in the new year, when Anthony had his friend Christine over for the afternoon. It was just the two of them. Mary had been very excited about it, Sherlock scoffing good-naturedly as she jokingly planned their future nuptials. But, when Christine arrived, Anthony seemed mortified to find that she had grown nearly a foot over the Christmas break, now towering over the pre-pubescent boy. She and Anthony were baking a birthday cake for Chris in the kitchen, and while they seemed to be having a nice time, Anthony looked awkward and nervous next to the teenaged girl. John pursed his lips every time he walked through the kitchen for a cup of tea, trying not to laugh at the sweet scene.

Anthony had taken an interest in sports again, on his friend Adam's insistence. They had even joined the football team at school together, Chris not partaking in the team this time, but still very supportive his friends. He would paint banners for them and attend all of their games with Christine and Nathaniel, politely greeting John every time they saw each other. John was always so impressed by the maturity of Anthony's friends-although, Adam still seemed to be a bit of a wild one. One day, when the snow had melted, he found Adam and his son sparring in the backyard.

"What on Earth are you boys fighting about!" John yelled, racing out onto his back porch to break them up, taking a gentle but firm hold on Adam, the larger boy's arm. Anthony started laughing as Adam explained:

"We weren't fighting, Doctor Watson. We're doing karate!"

John rolled his eyes and told them to be more careful, and that they were going to hurt themselves playing like that. When he returned to his kitchen, he found Sherlock waiting for him, having let himself into the house while John was out back. He explained the situation, and his concern for the boys' safety. Sherlock didn't seem too interested in the tale, having come to invite John on a case with him and Lestrade. He went with the detective, and didn't give the _karate_ any more thought.

That was, until a week later.

John had come home from work exhausted from the day he had just been through. He had spent the entire day in various short surgeries, none of which were life-threatening, but were exceeding painstaking. Mary had prepared supper for the two of them, and it took him a few moments to notice the empty seat at the table. He raised an eyebrow at his wife, who smirked, and directed his attention to the window. He peered through it, and there, on his porch, he saw Sherlock Holmes and Anthony in the midst of a karate lesson. John pressed a hand over his mouth, shocked, but amused. He looked at his wife, who shrugged, and they decided to let Anthony eat dinner later that night, after his lessons with Sherlock.

Sherlock would come over once every week to give Anthony a karate tutorial, and sometimes he would even allow Adam to join them, letting the boys spar against each other. John knew that the real reason Sherlock allowed Adam to infiltrate was because he worried about hurting Anthony if he fought the boy himself. John knew, though, that Sherlock had better control than he knew, and that he would never hurt his Godson. Still, the boys seemed to enjoy it, and they would practice often, even occasionally teaching their other friends the skills they had learned. By the time Anthony's thirteenth birthday had rolled around, he and his mates were holding a tournament amongst themselves, Christine acting as a judge, herself not particularly interested in fighting.

The kids had already eaten their cake, and Sherlock was chaperoning their tournament in the front yard, leaving John, Mary and Molly-who had come to visit for the day-in the living room. They could hear the battles happening through the window. Mary brought out a tray and the three adults caught up.

Molly seemed to be doing quite well-not only at the hospital, but in her personal life as well. She had met a man in her department, and the two of them had been going out for some months. "He isn't even a criminal mastermind!" she joked, and John was the only one who laughed. He was proud of his friend. She had gotten over Sherlock years earlier, but John had never seen her in a relationship. It suited her, and her cheeks flushed when she talked about her boyfriend. Mary looked thrilled for her Maid of Honour.

"So, when's the wedding?" she asked in jest, and Molly fell silent. They all gaped at her.

"I suppose Sherlock was going to let it out of the bag sooner or later, anyway..." she muttered as she pulled a ring from her purse and slid it onto her finger. John could see a thin indent where it had been, and he was surprised that Sherlock hadn't pointed it out when Molly had come in. Again, he was impressed with his friend's subtlety, something in which he credited himself for teaching the man.

At the end of the day, the kids came inside for some ice cream, allowing Anthony time to open all of his gifts. He received all sorts of sports and karate themed items, and when John saw the medium sized, beautifully wrapped box that Sherlock had brought for Anthony, he half-expected it to be a legitimate belt. Anthony inspected the gift before opening it, to Sherlock's evident delight. Giving the box a gentle shake, his eyes widened, and he hastily opened it.

"Uncle, you didn't..." he mumbled as the ripped away wrapping paper revealed the packaging for a superbly high-class digital camera. It was a top model, made for true photographers. John was a little surprised by the gift, having never seen Anthony take much of an interest in photography. It was a gift that only Sherlock could know he wanted, and Anthony was thrilled, already piecing it together and taking pictures of his guests, posing them for the best results. He would only let Sherlock touch the camera to take a photo of him and his friends, the five of them wrapping their arms around each other and making silly faces as the flash went off. That photo ended up on Anthony's bedroom wall for the rest of his youth.

Anthony's friends were going home, and Josie Thorpe had come to pick up her son. John greeted her, and as Nate was saying goodbye, he asked about her brother.

"He'll be in custody for a while yet," she told John, shrugging sadly. "But Mycroft has organized it so he can be in a low-security prison. He's getting help there, so that's good, I suppose."

John nodded. "That is good."

Sherlock, who had walked up next to John, joined the conversation. "Any word from Dublin on Michael Kipp?" he asked. "Just curious," he added, noting the way she raised her eyebrow.

"If there is," she told them, "I haven't heard anything about it. I just want all of that to be over."

"Indeed."

She gave each man a friendly goodnight and Mary a kiss on the cheek, jokingly thanking her for keeping her (extremely well-behaved) son in line. The other parents picked up their children, and even Sally Donovan swiftly collected Chris, whose conversation with Anthony was cut off as she raced in and out of the house to take him home. Eventually, it was just John, Mary, Molly, Sherlock and Anthony left in the house. Mary yawned.

"Yeah, I should go to bed, too," Molly stated, and began to make her rounds. She gave Sherlock an awkward hug after having said goodnight to the rest of them, and his eyes widened at her.

"You never told me..." he started, but drifted off, clutching her left hand. Molly looked very surprised.

"I thought you knew."

Sherlock simply stared at her, nodding to himself as he observed every detail about her. Finally, he said, "Um...well, goodnight, Molly." He smiled. "Congratulations."

Then Molly laughed at him. "I can't believe I finally surprised you," she told him as she left. Sherlock still seemed a bit bewildered, but eventually said his own goodbyes.

The Watson family got ready for bed, but John decided to stay up for a while and read the daily newspaper at the kitchen table, which he had missed out on due to the day's events. An hour later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Anthony was getting himself a glass of milk.

"Trouble sleeping?" John asked him. The boy yawned sleepily, and sat down opposite his father, putting his glass down on the table and pulling his legs up, crossing them on his seat.

"I was testing out my camera."

It was summer break, so John didn't mind his son staying up so late. "You never told me you liked photography," he said.

"Oh yeah," Anthony replied, "I've been wanting to try it for ages. Chris is in a play downtown, and I'm gonna go take pictures of it next week. It'll be good practice." John didn't say anything. He wondered how Sherlock had known, and Anthony answered his question, as if reading his father's mind. "I was telling Uncle Sher-" Anthony only used that nickname for his Godfather when Sherlock was absent, aware that he despised it, "-that I wanted to come out with you and him, and take pictures of your crime scenes for the blog. He said Lestrade probably wouldn't let me." John was impressed: he had thought Sherlock would be thrilled to take Anthony out on a case. Then he realized that he probably was, but he knew that John wouldn't allow it.

"He got you the camera, anyway."

"Yeah. I think I'm going to sign up for the school newspaper next year. Nate writes in it, and I'll be old enough to join. It'll be fun."

"What about football?"

Anthony laughed, and John revelled in the sound. He didn't get much time alone with his son, and for the first time in a while, Anthony seemed more than willing to open up to his father.

"That's more Adam's thing...and besides, he wants to do rugby next year. I think I'll take pictures, instead." There was a pause as John nodded, approving of his son's decision. Anthony shifted in his seat. "Aunt Molly is getting married."

"She is. Hard to believe, we haven't even met the guy yet."

"Was Uncle Sher jealous?"

And then John laughed, quite heartily. Anthony looked confused, so John calmed himself. "Um...no," he assured him. "He's definitely not jealous."

"Then why was he acting so weird?"

"He wasn't expecting it. You know Sherlock, he knows everything before it happens."

"I guess so. Maybe he wasn't jealous that someone else was marrying her, though. Maybe he was jealous of her. Maybe he wishes it was him getting married."

John was a little surprised at his son's words. Anthony seemed to be going to great lengths to figure out his Godfather's thoughts.

"What about Miss Adler?"

"What about her?" John was a little surprised that his son remembered The Woman.

"I sort of thought he liked her."

John was taken aback by the whole conversation. It took a few more moments of observing his son to find that he seemed wholly concerned. "Are you worried about him, Anthony?" John asked. Anthony shrugged, and drank some of his milk, which had gotten warm. John decided not to prod, but did ask another question that had been on his mind, one that he'd never had the gall to ask before that moment. "What about you? Any girls at school?"

Anthony looked shocked that his father would bring up such a thing, but didn't seem offended. Another shrug, and then a sly smile, but no response. John grinned. They kept chatting about Anthony's camera, his telescope, and even his karate lessons with Sherlock. Eventually, Anthony downed the rest of his milk, and announced that he was too sleepy to stay up anymore.

"You and me both," John agreed, and got up. Anthony rinsed his cup before leading the way up the stairs. When Anthony was little, he used to jump into his John's arms and kiss him goodnight. John remembered those moments as Anthony silently approached his bedroom door, and he had a moment of sadness as he realized that he probably wouldn't ever have that again, his son too old for such an embrace. But, as Anthony opened his door and turned on the light inside, he turned back to his father.

"Do you think Uncle Sher's lonely?"

"Is that what you're worried about?" Anthony nodded shyly. John sighed. He too had wondered recently about the change in Sherlock's demeanour. He was better-mannered, and seemed to have gotten more welcoming to new faces and experiences. But Anthony was right: Sherlock seemed off in some way. Was he sad? He occasionally seemed melancholy, and would often stare off into space, unfocused, not like his silences when he was deep in thought. This was new. But then, Sherlock would come to the house, and he was his old self again, only different. Friendly, engaging. He was especially so when he would give Anthony his karate lesson, his full focus on his Godson, the pride evident in his face every time he made progress. He would laugh openly when John and Mary got into one of their playful fights, enjoying his view of the bond they shared. Sherlock _was _different, in a number of ways. Some good, some worrisome. John spoke to his son: "I'm sure he's fine, Anthony," he said, trying to calm the thirteen-year old's mind. "And even if he's not, I'm sure we can find a way to fix that, can't we?"

That was the line that seemed to set Anthony's thoughts at ease, and he sauntered into his bedroom. Before shutting the door, though, he addressed his father again. "Goodnight, Dad," he said.

"Goodnight, Anthony. I love you."

"Love you, too," Anthony replied as he pulled the door closed. He was so nonchalant about it, the words falling off his tongue a simple, uncomplicated fact, but they meant more to his father than he possibly could have known.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Notes: **Not much to say here, just want to let you know how much I appreciate your kind words and responses to my story! This is my longest fic on FF dot net, and it's been so rewarding to write. Please continue to enjoy and review!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Four<strong>

Anthony loved his camera. John could tell, because of how careful his son was with the device, taking it out only when the moment was too perfect _not_ to photograph. He sometimes brought it to big events, or to family functions, but mostly he used it for artistic purposes. John would often find his son out in the garden, trying to get the most impeccable shot possible of a flower, capturing the very essence that took the item from a plant to a living, breathing organism. John didn't get to see many of Anthony's photos, the boy hiding his favourites inside of his Safe-Keeping Box, but he did get occasional glimpses if Mary asked for something to frame, or if Anthony was sorting them at the kitchen table. They weren't secret, it's just that Anthony didn't show them off.

Apart from all these times, Anthony would occasionally pull out his camera when his friends were over. They would be sitting on the porch together, having some conversation or debate, and Anthony would be snapping photos of them. It was Sherlock who pointed out that he deleted the posed ones, trying to build a collection of candids of his friends. He knew that, because Anthony would often do the same to him. Whenever Sherlock came over to chat with John and Mary, Anthony would sometimes sneak around a corner and try to get a photo of his Godfather. They were always candids-they couldn't be anything else, since Sherlock had no idea how to pose for a picture.

John got to see Anthony's favourite photo of Sherlock once by accident. He had just gotten some photos printed at the nearby drugstore, and he was sorting through them on the living room coffee table. There were countless pictures, from many different occasions, one being a family reunion from a few weeks earlier. Anthony was sorting those into one pile, but he was making two more piles. When John asked, Anthony explained that one pile was for art shots, and one was for general personal photos that he was going to put into an album. All of the artistic pictures were of flowers or scenes, and Anthony was putting all of the candids into the personal pile. However, John noticed that Anthony was placing a photo of a person into the art pile. He asked who it was, and Anthony handed the picture over. It was Sherlock, and the photo would have been taken only a few days earlier.

The photo was a profile of his face. His hands were in prayer position, pressed up to his lips. The shadows of his cheekbones seemed intensified by the angle at which the photo was taken. His eyes stared forward, as focused as John had ever seen them. The portrait was certainly a piece of art.

"When did you take this?" It wasn't a question of the date, but the moment, since John and Mary had both been with Sherlock that day, and John hadn't seen him in that position.

"You hadn't gotten home yet, and Mum was in the kitchen, turning on the kettle. I snuck downstairs and took this before she got back. He didn't even notice, I don't think."

"Do you put a lot of portraits of people in your art collection?" John asked his son.

"Only if it's perfect," Anthony answered. John handed back the photo. Yes, that was perfectly Sherlock Holmes. Anthony signed his initials onto the picture before adding it to the pile. It was his watermark, his indication that the photo was special.

School started up again, and Anthony went into Year Nine with huge excitement. As he'd said, he joined the school newspaper team as their photographer, which meant that he was able to spend a lot more time with Nathaniel Thorpe. The two would often attend school events together, Nate writing articles while Anthony took the pictures. John enjoyed the arrangement, and had the chance to get to know Josie Thorpe quite well. She became very good friends with Mary, as well, and came over often. John never prodded, but he did occasionally ask for updates about her brother. Peter seemed to be doing well in his therapy, and his sentence got shorter practically every time she came over. Sherlock would occasionally be at the Watson home when she was around, as well, and would ask about her work with Mycroft and other more case-related fare. The conversation between them was always quite professional, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind Josie.

Anthony did the newspaper with Nate. He kept doing karate with Adam. And, when he finally hit his growth spurt, John noticed that he was inviting Christine over more often, the two of them usually baking something or tending to the garden together. However, John found that while Anthony was spending a lot of time with his friends, he never got much of a chance to see Chris Donovan, whose interests had fallen into the realm of drama. Whenever John would suggest Anthony invite Chris over, Anthony would sigh and tell him that the older boy was in rehearsal, or learning lines. It seemed to annoy him that he never got to see his best friend, but it meant that when they did see each other, they were absolutely inseparable.

John had once caught the two boys in the living room. Anthony was taking photos while Chris was showing off his latest costumes, the ones he'd needed for a small performance in his drama class. They were apparently acting out Hamlet, and they'd rummaged through Mary's old clothes to piece together the Shakespearean garb, complete with tights and shorts with elastics tied at the knees to give them their old-fashioned poof. The boys were laughing as they dressed each other up, poking fun at how ridiculous the other looked. John was reminded of Sherlock's disguises for a second, and the painstaking way he would choose each one.

"Dad, take our picture!" Anthony ordered his father, who was honoured to be their chosen photographer. Mary came in behind him laughing loudly as he snapped shots of the boys.

"Smile!" he said at each snap.

"Smile-eth!" Chris would jest back, sending Anthony into a fit of giggles. It was nice to see that even though the boys were teenagers, they still acted like kids every so often.

Anthony was taking every art class he could in school. John and Mary were both thrilled to see that even with Anthony's new interest in photography, he still loved drawing and painting. Every time John saw Anthony working on one of his pieces, he was shocked by the improvement. Anthony, at thirteen, was a better artist than most people twice his age, and creative as well. The thing John started to miss, though, were Anthony's detective stories, and the little mystery books he used to make. That is, until he realized that Anthony hadn't given up searching for the clues...

Anthony had received top marks on a sketch of an old man riding the London Eye. When Sherlock had seen it, displayed on the kitchen table, he called Anthony over.

"My dear Watson," he began, looking down Anthony at a less dramatic angle now that the boy had grown so tall, "Why on earth would you draw something so sad?"

Anthony didn't answer, but had a guilty look on his face. He had left the picture there by accident, John was sure, since he never left assignments out. John was confused. He searched the painting, trying to take it in like he would a case. "What are you talking about? How is that sad? He looks like he's having a right good time." Anthony simply shrugged and returned to the living room, where he had been doing his math homework.

Later that night, John asked Sherlock to explain the sketch to him. Sherlock brought him back to the kitchen and sat him down in front of the piece.

"What do you see?" he asked John.

The man was alone in his box, his feet resting on the bench opposite his own. His hand was pressed against the window next to him, but he wasn't looking out. Instead, he was leaning his head back, his eyes peacefully closed. His other hand held onto a bouquet of flowers. He was smiling. John listed his observations to Sherlock, who did not waste any time making inductions.

"The man is dead, John." Sherlock left John to look at the sketch, as if he was testing his friend. John complied after Sherlock had gone home, searching the piece. It was then that he saw the slumped way in which the hand rested against the window, the arm held up by a rolled up coat beneath it. He looked at the feet, and particularly the shoes, one of which had a hole in the heel, indicating that the man was homeless. The eyes were peaceful, but they weren't evenly closed, and John thought he could make out one of the pupils, pointed in an awkward angle. The bouquet was wilted, but John found a note attached to it, and could make out the tiny, scribbled x's and o's. The man had died happy and loved, but all alone.

The last thing John noticed was the structure of the man's face, the light shading in the centre of his cheeks, and the surprising length of his fingers.

Anthony had drawn Sherlock, and Sherlock wasn't meant to see it.

The sketch didn't seem to come between them, though, as Anthony would still go over to 221B some nights to use his telescope. Once, as John was picking his son up from the flat, he sent Anthony to warm up the car while he said goodnight to Sherlock.

"I don't see why he doesn't ever take it home," Sherlock said, as if he was thinking aloud. John raised an eyebrow. If Sherlock recognized that Anthony left the telescope there as an excuse to see his Godfather more often, he did show it.

"Do you wish he would?" John asked. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly.

"No." It was as if the idea had only just occurred to him. John tried his best not to look concerned for his friend as they said their goodnights.

Perhaps Anthony was right. Perhaps Sherlock _was _lonely.

John and Mary made a point of inviting him over for Christmas dinner, and Sherlock arrived bearing gifts for every member of the family. He gave Anthony a new lens for his camera, Mary a set of silver measuring cups and spoons for her cooking, and John a First Edition classic medical textbook, which he found quite intriguing. Sherlock actually ate dinner that night, and he was fairly silent, as usual, but John knew his friend well, and he could see a sad glare in his eyes every now and then as he lost his focus to the wall opposite him, and once when he glanced at Anthony, who was completely absorbed in Mary's delicious turkey.

Molly's wedding came a couple of months into the New Year, and Mary had quite the job as her Maid of Honour, practically planning the entire event since Molly hadn't hired a professional. Luckily, Mary was terrific at organizing events, and when the day of the wedding came about, things were running exceptionally smoothly.

They had met Molly's fiance, George. Compared to her, he was extremely chatty, and he seemed to bring out her own confidence in conversation. He was a humorous man, and John sometimes caught Molly staring at him in awe, gaping rather than laughing at his jokes. She was enthralled with him, and he seemed to feel the same way about her, his hand never letting hers go when they were together, and inviting her into conversations with ease. He brought out the best in her, and John liked the man. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unamused by his comedic antics, but he did not insult George. On the day of the wedding, John asked him how he liked Molly's soon-to-be husband.

"It appears that he makes her quite happy," Sherlock had answered, simply. John couldn't read his face at that moment, but during the ceremony, his motives became clear. The congregation stood as Molly walked down the aisle, wearing a tasteful white dress rather than an elaborate wedding gown. Mary had done her make-up, and it was light enough that John could see the flush in cheeks as she excitedly approached George. Sherlock was standing next to John, and the doctor heard his friend gasp as Molly walked past them. Then, as the ceremony was ending, and George was ordered to kiss his bride, John heard a quiet sniffle next to him.

Sherlock Holmes was not crying, but his eyes were as red as John had ever seen them. He would have been concerned if it weren't for the comical grin plastered on the detective's face. He was so happy for Molly. Not jealous, just excited for her joy, and for the life she was about to lead with her new husband. Sensing John's glance, Sherlock immediately cleared his throat and returned his face to a neutral position. John gave a silent laugh and applauded as George lifted Molly and carried her out of the church, the girl laughing hysterically as he did so, on the happiest day of her life.

There wasn't a big reception, but rather a quick cocktail hour, during which John made his way over to Mrs. Hudson to catch up. She had barely aged a day since John had first met her, and he had the slight inclination that she would outlive all of them. He asked her about business, and if there were any new tenants in her apartments. Asking her about life in the flat, she simply told John that things were, _"Rather quiet,"_ and that she was always thrilled whenever Anthony came over, bringing a little life to the building. John had known for some time that Anthony had grown close to Mrs. Hudson, his few living grandparents living far away and not visiting often.

"He asks about Sherlock a lot," Mrs. Hudson told John, her face falling serious.

"Yes," John nodded. "He's been worrying about him."

"And you?"

John shrugged. "He seems...off, doesn't he?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared to agree with John, and she slyly dragged him into a quiet corner of the room. "I shouldn't say anything," she started, checking over John's shoulder to see if anyone was listening to them, "But I haven't seen him out for a case all week. He hardly goes out on them anymore, even if Lestrade asks him."

John was shocked. Sherlock without a case? But...he'd been out with him that last weekend, when they had solved the mystery of a (seemingly) attempted murder. He told Mrs. Hudson.

"Well, yes. He's goes on cases with you, of course."

The next time Sherlock came to the house, John was glad that Mary had taken Anthony out to one of Chris' dress rehearsals, seeing the show early so he could take pictures of it. It was just him and his best friend, sitting in the living room, and Sherlock was being rather difficult. Every time John would try prompting a conversation, Sherlock would circle the task of speaking back on John. He seemed so interested in John's life, in every aspect of it, and his glare was focused on his friend's face, as if he were deducing him. Eventually, though, John had run out of things to say, and try as he might he couldn't get Sherlock to take a turn. Finally, he decided to confront him:

"What's going on with you?" he asked, mentally chastising himself for being so demanding. Sherlock seemed taken aback by the direct question, and he broke his eye contact with John, looking at the floor.

"I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was soft, concerned, sighing. And Sherlock brought a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes and scratching at his temples. "Has something happened?" John asked, trying to cue him. Sherlock's fingers clutching at the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. He took a deep breath, and John could tell that he was doing his best not to cry. John had only ever seen Sherlock cry once, that day on St. Bart's, but John was so far away, so separate from the man. He had no idea how to respond, but waited patiently for Sherlock to tell him what was wrong. Eventually, Sherlock answered:

"Yes." Another slow, deep breath. "Something happened...something I did..." A strangled noise, a sound that made John's heart skip a beat. Finally, he mumbled, "I did something bad, John," and a series of the sobbing noises started to come from him. He brought a second hand to his face and bent over, burying his tears towards his knees. John tried to find the right reaction, tried to make a decision on what to do. Sherlock was sitting in the arm chair, so John couldn't sit next to him. Instead, he got up from the couch and stepped over the coffee table, sitting down on it so his head was level with his friend's. He reached out his hand and clutched at the scruff of Sherlock's neck, massaging it softly. He tried to hide the terrified look on his face, the evidence of his anxiety.

If only Mary had been there. She'd know exactly what to do, exactly how to handle Sherlock's combustion of emotions. But would Sherlock have cried in front of her, or was John the only one he trusted enough to experience the scene?

"It's alright..." John cooed, the way he would have if it were Mary who was upset, or Anthony. Would that work? This was Sherlock Holmes, would he find such vagueness at all comforting, or would he scoff at it? Neither.

"No...no..." he was muttering, over and over through his sobs. Then John had an idea. He knew exactly what Mary would say to the detective. She would try to reason with him.

"Did whatever you've done end the world, Sherlock?" He tried to sound authoritative. Sherlock shook his head, his weeping pausing. "Has it thrown the British government into disarray?" A choked laugh, and another negative shake. John grasped at Sherlock's neck more tightly now, supporting it. One more question: "Has it hurt anyone?"

Sherlock didn't indicate an answer that time, but he started rubbing at his eyes, wiping them as he sniffed. "I should go," he muttered, and tried to stand, but John held him down in the seat, determined to help his friend.

"Sherlock." He was more forceful this time, the army Captain in him reaching the forefront of his being. "Have you hurt someone?"

Sherlock's hands fell from his face and onto his lap, sitting limply over his knees. He shook his head, defeated. "Only myself."


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Notes: **Now I've got you all excited, and I hope this lives up to the hype! I don't know how many ways to thank you for all your support and reviews, but just keep 'em coming! Let me know what you think, and what you want to happen next!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Five<strong>

John walked to the kitchen as Sherlock dried his face, and turned the kettle on while he prepared two mugs. Tonight was a coffee night, not tea. He leaned against the counter listening to the screams of the boiling water next to him and tried to figure out what he was going to say when he re-entered the living room. It was quite clear to him what Sherlock had meant when he said he'd hurt himself, and John didn't want to get angry at his friend. Going to get coffee was as much a way to give Sherlock some privacy as it was for John to calm himself down. It was as if the kettle was mimicking John's blood pressure. Boiling. But, as the water heated up, John cooled down. This wasn't about him. This was about Sherlock.

He mixed instant coffee in with the bubbling water and stirred the two sugars into Sherlock's mug before adding some cream to his own. Then, taking in a deep breath, he walked back into the living room and sat down opposite Sherlock, this time on the couch rather than the coffee table. He didn't want to put the distance between them, but perhaps it was better to give Sherlock that space. The man's eyes were still red, but they were dry, and his gaze was focused on John's face, waiting for his response. John gave the only one he could think of:

"Okay." Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, his gaze leaving John. The guilt was written all over his face, and John didn't know whether to scold him or forgive him. There were answers he needed first. "How long?" he asked, simply.

Sherlock let the mug rest on his knees. "It was just once," he said, as if he was trying to justify it. John bit his lip. "I swear it was. Before Christmas."

"But?"

"But..." Sherlock trailed off. Then: "It brought all of it back. I feel it's as if I can think of nothing else."

John nodded. "You were acting off before then, too. Anthony noticed."

"Does he know?" Sherlock looked as if that was the worst possible thing that could happen.

John shook his head. "Of course not. How could he?" It seemed to calm Sherlock, but not much. His forehead was shining with sweat. "You want some now?" John asked.

"Always."

John took in a few more sips of coffee. He needed to be alert for this, needed to clear his mind. "Why'd you do it, Sherlock? You knew this would happen." He couldn't hide his disappointment.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, a pained expression on his face. He opened his eyes, but could not look at John. "In Ireland, I was thinking about the things people would do the sake of drugs, the lengths to which they were willing to go. It had been so long, and I wanted to...to understand what made them do it. But then, I was distracted, what with Anthony going back to school and Mary...well, that only lasted so long."

"So, you did it out of...curiosity?" Again, the disappointment.

"It was at first, but then I started to remember. I started to feel that...that _need,_ again." Sherlock's hand was clenching in front of his chest, as if that was where the _'need' _lived. "I was trying so hard to avoid it, to ignore it. It was...overwhelming."

"You could have come to me."

"I know." Sherlock stared into his mug. "I _know,_ but...it wouldn't have solved it. I needed...a _seven percent solution._" Sherlock's terminology made John's stomach churn. "I just felt so..."

"Lonely?"

Sherlock finally looked up. "What?"

"Anthony thinks you're lonely. Are you?"

Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly, as if he were gasping in slow motion. His eyes darted around the room, as if one of the photos on the walls would give him a proper answer-anything to respond to John's questioning. The silence was so consuming that it was practically tangible, filling their lungs and spilling out into the room as if it were a haze of smoke. John could see Sherlock's hands shaking, and the coffee in his mug was dangerously close to spilling over the edges. Sherlock placed it down on the table and clasped his hands tightly, massaging his thumbs together. "Why would he think that?" The question was genuine, but John couldn't understand why the detective couldn't see what everyone else had.

"He just thought...what with Molly's wedding, and all." John leaned in a bit, trying to coax Sherlock into looking at him again. "Mrs. Hudson told me you stopped taking cases."

"I do! You and I-"

"-Cases without _me,_ Sherlock. Why?"

Again, Sherlock closed his eyes, and John watched his eyebrows furrowing as he searched for his feelings on the matter. His mind was clearly jumbled, and the coffee hadn't helped his alertness. This was not the Sherlock Holmes that John knew. He opened his eyes. "It is not fair of me to live through you quite so...vicariously, John." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his head turning towards the doorway. Was he planning to escape? John readied himself, but then he realized that Sherlock wasn't looking at the exit, he was looking at the stairs. "What you have is something that I could never acheive, something I could never even wish for."

"What d'you mean, _'what I have?'_"

Sherlock looked back at him, a sad smile on his pursed lips. "I'm not like you, John. I don't-_feel_-the way that you do. We both know that."

"And yet here we are, you pouring out the heart you don't think you have to your best friend." It was something that John never would have said in any other conversation but the one they were having at that moment. Before, it would have remained a known secret, an 'elephant in the room.' But this Sherlock needed to hear those words, needed to be reminded, because he didn't look like he believed it.

"Don't ever give me so much credit as to say I'm half as much as you are."

"Half as much _what?_" Now John was getting frustrated.

"It goes without saying."

"No, I don't think it does!" Sherlock bit his lip defiantly, refusing to elaborate. John sighed. "I should call Mycroft."

"You don't think he knows?"

"I would have if he did."

It looked as though the thought had never occurred to Sherlock. "Oh." He raised an eyebrow. "But you won't?"

John shrugged. "Not if you let me help you." John finished his coffee, and picked up Sherlock's mug as well before standing and taking them both to the sink. When he returned, he leaned against the living room doorway, too awake now to sit back down. He decided to re-enter their conversation with humour, his way of easing back onto the topic. "You know, if you want my life so badly, I'm sure Mary has some friends we could set you up with."

Sherlock scoffed. "You think this is about _women, _John?"

John rolled his eyes. Of course he knew better than that. Then he allowed the serious look to return to his face. "Look, Sherlock: you might think that you're some heartless sociopath, but I know better. I can see you - better than you can see you."

Sherlock looked back at him, his hands still clasped. "And what do you see?"

John folded his arms. "I see the most brilliant man I know, maybe the most brilliant in the world. But you already knew that, so let me tell you what else I see." John paused to take a deep breath. "I see a man with more people who love him than he can accept having. A man who would gladly give his life for any of them - a man who did, for some of them." Sherlock stared at John, his expression desperate. "I see someone who has done more for my family than I think even I have. I see a _member_ of this family. You are a member of my family, Sherlock, whether you know it or not."

"That's not true. I don't deserve-"

"-I see..." John searched for more examples, himself as desperate to convince Sherlock as Sherlock was to be convinced. "I see someone who looked after my wife when I couldn't, who made up for all the things I was doing wrong, and all the ways I didn't realize I was hurting her."

"John-"

"_-And_ I see my _best friend:_ the only person I know deserving enough to be such a massive part of my son's life. And _that, _Sherlock Holmes, is your greatest accomplishment, because I don't take what you do for Anthony lightly." By now, John felt his own eyes wet with tears, but his cheeks had somehow remained dry. Sherlock seemed frozen to his seat, his eyes unmoving, but his hands having loosened their grip on each other. John took a step towards him. "You may think that you're not worthy of having someone like Mary or Anthony in your life, but you're wrong, because you do have them. And you have me, if that makes any difference, too."

"It makes all the difference," John heard Sherlock mumble as his hands fell apart, rubbing his knees awkwardly, and looking like he was about to stand.

"Stay here tonight," John offered him, worried about the man returning to Baker Street alone.

Sherlock shook his head. "No-" he started, but John pleaded:

"Please. Stay."

"I don't feel as if I could sleep tonight."

"Well, it's a weekend. I'll stay up with you."

Sherlock nodded, affirmatively, and John returned to the couch.

* * *

><p>When Mary and Anthony returned to the house late that night, they found John and Sherlock playing cards and drinking coffee, betting with small change. They laughed every time one lost a round, and seemed absorbed in conversation. Mary went to bed quickly after giving each man a kiss on the cheek goodnight, intuitively aware that they needed that time alone together. Anthony was too tired to stay up, but did also go into the living room to say goodnight to his Father and his Godfather. As he turned to go up to his bedroom, Sherlock gently grasped his arm, keeping him next to his seat and observing him. Anthony stared back, confused. Eventually, Sherlock spoke, his eyes level with Anthony's chest:<p>

"I don't want you to worry about me," he whispered. Anthony nodded silently, and then his face softened. He bent down and embraced his Godfather. Sherlock accepted the gesture, holding the tall boy with one arm, the way he always hugged.

The next morning, when Anthony went down the stairs, he found the two men sound asleep. His Father was sprawled out on the couch, a blanket tucked over him. Had his Mother covered him? She couldn't have, since she would have covered Sherlock, as well. Sherlock, on the other hand, had tucked his legs up onto the armchair, still half-clutching his empty mug. Anthony snuck back up the stairs and collected his camera. He was thrilled to find the scene unchanged when he returned, and he snapped the secret photo of the two men sound asleep.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes: Okay, so normally I would never place a 'message from the author' here, so I'll try to keep this quick and unobtrusive, but I just wanted to quickly request everyone's thoughts regarding the rating of this story. I don't plan on delving any further into the drug use or using any more graphic language than I already have so far in this story, but I'm unsure whether the mere mention of drug use is enough to give this fic a T rating, or if anything else in it is. Your thoughts and opinions would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!<em>


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Notes: **I fear that this chapter may seem a little odd, but I really wanted to tell it from a third-party perspective. An observation of John and Sherlock, through the eyes of the most important teen in each of their lives. A quick note: I chose a lot of the title for the characters based on who they were interacting with. So, when John is interacting with Anthony, he's referred to as "Dad" or "his Father", but when I want to enhance his moments with Sherlock or someone else, I'm calling him simply "John." Sorry if it seems a little jumbled, but otherwise it got frightfully repetitive.

* * *

><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Six<strong>

Anthony's Dad went out for a number of cases with his Godfather over the next couple of months. He would skip dinners, instead racing out to crime scenes to work with his friend. It was like he was going from one job to another. The clinic to the case. Occasionally he would write up one of the cases for the blog, but Anthony preferred hearing the stories from his Father, who would often transcribe them while speaking them aloud.

It was a little odd to eat supper alone with his Mother, but Anthony's friends came over often. He knew his Mum didn't mind the extra company, especially when Chris or Christine were over. They were her favourites, he could tell, but he kept that a secret.

Maybe it was because they were so polite. But Nate was polite – probably the most cordial of all his friends – and while Mum seemed to like him, she seemed more at ease when it was Chris eating with them. Even Dad liked Chris, which was hard for him, since he didn't get along as well with his friend's Mom. Chris was the only one of Anthony's mates who called his Dad "Mr. Watson." The others had been instructed by their parents to call him "Doctor", but Anthony always thought it sounded weird, and it was refreshing to hear Chris interact with his Dad without the pretence of a title. It was like they were friends too, sort of. Either way, his Father never seemed to mind. Maybe he liked it, too.

Sherlock came over now and then to continue teaching Anthony karate, and he had started sparring with him himself, not as worried about hurting him anymore. When they did fight, though, it was only for a few minutes, and Dad was always watching, which was awkward. Sherlock would eat supper with them, and Anthony's Mother was more forceful than usual in making him actually eat something. Sherlock almost always lost to her will. Anthony still visited 221B, too, usually to visit his telescope. He was working on an astronomy project in his Science class, and teaching Sherlock was the best way for him to learn the material himself. His Godfather seemed to like it when Anthony came over, and would always invite him back for whenever he liked.

One weekend, when all of the Watsons were home, Anthony heard the phone ringing. He was sitting in the living room, working on a sketch for his Art class while he watched tele. The phone was on the coffee table, and he picked it in his left hand, not stopping his drawing.

"Hullo?" he mumbled into the phone, distracted.

"Anthony, would you mind putting your Father on the phone." Mycroft.

Anthony wrinkled his nose, but called his Dad nonetheless. John answered from the kitchen. "Yeah?"

There was a pause. Then: "Anthony, I'd appreciate you hanging up, now."

Anthony did as he was told, but as he glanced up from his piece, he could see his Father in the kitchen, his expression hardening as he listened to whatever Mycroft was telling him. When he hung up, he asked Anthony to tell his Mother he'd be out a little late that night, and to start supper without him. Without waiting around for an answer, he threw on his jacket and jogged out the door, leaving it unlocked. Rolling his eyes, Anthony locked it for him, and returned to his homework.

When he got home, it was suppertime, and Anthony's Father looked a little more pale than he had before leaving. Mary asked him if everything was alright, and he shrugged at her. Anthony wondered if his Dad was getting sick, a theory that only grew more plausible when he heard him speaking. His voice was hoarse as he sat down at the table and greeted his Son.

"Dad, have you been yelling?"

His Father cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Thanks for supper, Mary," he said, simply, and tucked into his food. As he went up to his bedroom that night, Anthony passed the small table in the foyer. His Dad had left the keys to 221B there, and Anthony wondered how he could have hurt his voice while he was there.

Christine was doing a Fashion class at school, and one day at lunch she complained to Anthony about how useless her own Mother was in helping her learn to sew. Anthony's Mother, on the other hand, was great at it. He told Christine that she could come over that night, that his Mum wouldn't mind giving her a hand. Christine accepted the offer, and said she'd be there after grabbing a few things from her house.

Anthony raced home and begged his Mother to do we he told Christine she would. Strangely, she started laughing. "Sure thing, An," she said, and went to set up her sewing table. When Christine arrived, Anthony watched her sewing lesson. He didn't like Christine the way the other guys did – or so he told them, if they asked. Not that they would admit to it either, but there was something to be said when she was the only girl in their circle of friends. Adam had other girl friends, of course, but he was in sports, and they all probably just had a crush on him. Chris did, too, but mostly they were just strange dancer girls from the musicals he did, and both boys found them hugely annoying. Nate was the smartest of all of them, saying that he didn't need to think about girls until he was older, and that he would perfect his guitar skills before trying to woo any of them. Apparently, women loved musicians, and it was just like Nate to be prepared before rushing into female territory.

Mary invited Christine to stay for supper, as she often did, and Christine accepted. "Thanks," she said, "Just let me call my Mom and ask." She went to the kitchen to make the call. Just then, the door burst open, and Anthony's Godfather skipped inside.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Anthony greeted him, having not expected the visitor. Sherlock raced over to him, greeting Mary with overt enthusiasm. He insisted that Anthony go to the backyard for a karate lesson. "I can't," Anthony told him, "I have a friend over."

But Sherlock was persistent. He ran through all the reasons why the exercise would be better for him than to sit around and watch girls sew – Christine had returned to the living room by then, and she and Mary both looked rather offended - but then his mind seemed to take a turn. "I'll even let you take a few shots at me!" he had said, referring to the karate. The idea came immediately after. "A shot! Why: we should get you out to the shooting range some time, see if you've inherited your Father's skill! No...not the shooting range. Too boring. I know a few places where no one will find us!"

"You want to teach him how to shoot?" Mary looked appalled.

"It's a good idea!"

"No, Sherlock, I don't think it is!"

"Why?"

"Well, for one: it's illegal..."

Sherlock was overly talkative for some reason, and he kept trying to rationalize his new idea. Mary was frowning, unable to get a word in edgewise. Soon later, Anthony heard the house key in the door handle, and his Father had come home from work. Seeing Sherlock, he looked frozen, and Anthony couldn't help noticing the shift in his posture as he drew close to the man. Mary filled him in on Sherlock's latest pipe dream, and John asked to speak with him in the backyard.

Of course, Anthony wasn't about to let them go on talking without him, so when Mary and Christine were distracted once again, he tip-toed through the kitchen to the back screen door. He opened it, deciding not to hide. To his surprise, Anthony's Father was yelling.

"You are acting like a bloody child, Sherlock! What d'you think he is-" A pause. "Anthony, go up to your room!" he ordered, surprisingly harshly. Anthony turned to his Godfather pleadingly - as if he was going to a higher authority – but Sherlock had a guilty look on his face, and nodded slowly, indicating his agreement with John. Furious, Anthony stomped up the stairs to his bedroom, where Christine had been waiting for him after realizing he'd left the living room.

"You can sort of see them through here," she told him, tilting her head toward the window. He could see them in a bird's eye view, their arms swinging widely as they fought. Eventually, he built up the gall to open the window a touch in order to hear their conversation.

"-He has a _key_! He might have walked in!"

"Are you saying you don't trust me with him?"

"No..." John mumbled. "I'm just saying...maybe you should try to find a new case, something to pre-occupy your-" But Sherlock had already turned away and gone into the house. Anthony ran out of his room to the staircase to meet him, but Sherlock was coolly making his exit, locking the door as usual before he closed it. He didn't bother to say goodbye.

John was sitting in the armchair reading the newspaper that evening, and after Christine had gone home, Anthony went to sit with him. "Are you mad at Uncle Sher?" It was a very direct question, and it seemed to throw his Father off-guard. He didn't answer. "I want to learn to shoot," Anthony told him, having considered Sherlock's offer.

"Absolutely not," his Dad said, his tone resolute despite its scratchy quality.

"Dad, it'll be perfectly safe!"

"Guns aren't toys, Anthony."

"I know that! Besides, it'll be a good way for me to spend time with Him."

A frown. "Don't be worried," he started, which only served to make Anthony anxious, "But I think we should probably leave Sherlock alone for a little while."

"Why would I do that? He loves it when I come over."

"Yes, well, he's got a lot on his mind right now-"

"-And besides, who better to teach me than him?"

His Dad, to Anthony's surprise, rolled his eyes. "Anthony, you're too young for-"

"-I'm not a little kid anymore, Dad!"

His Father was frozen to his seat. He gave Anthony a once-over. "No...you're not, are you?" he mumbled, as if he were realizing it for the first time.

Anthony went to 221B the very next day after school, despite his Father's wishes. His chain of keys was hidden under his shirt, where he usually kept it, and he pulled it out to open the flat's door. He walked up the stairs and knocked before putting the key into that doorknob, but the door was opened for him before he could finish.

"I didn't think you still wore that," Sherlock said, pointing to the chain around Anthony's neck.

"I don't. Keep it in my knapsack, normally."

"Hm." Had he deduced the lie? "What would you like?" It was unlike his Godfather to behave so nervelessly around Anthony.

"I thought we could start my training."

"What training?" He really didn't seem to remember.

"To teach me how to shoot."

Sherlock sighed. "Not today, Anthony. Your parents are right. You're too young."

"_And _it's not legal," Anthony added. "When has that ever stopped _you?_"

His Godfather didn't even smile. "Go home, Anthony."

"But Sherlock!"

The man's eyes twitched, and he frowned. It was as if he had never heard his name before, un-prefaced by the familial term Anthony usually used when he spoke to his Godfather. Perhaps he felt as if the lack of a title had evicted him from Anthony's life. He was no longer Uncle, he was just another acquaintance. Anthony regretted his words as soon as he saw Sherlock's reaction.

"There's a bus on the corner in five minutes. Don't miss it," his Godfather insisted. Anthony complied, and said a brief valediction before climbing back down the stairs, feeling utterly rejected.

Anthony's birthday was coming up, and try as he might, he could hardly get in touch with his Godfather, who seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth. Every time he brought up the subject of Sherlock to his Dad, he was met with a sharp chide or an exasperated sigh. It frustrated the teen, who was only trying to figure out what was wrong with his Father's best friend. "What are you fighting about?" he tried to ask one night.

"We're not fighting, now would you_ please_ give it a rest?" his Father had retorted.

Summer came, and on Anthony's fourteenth birthday, his parents took him out to his favourite restaurant - just the three of them. It was a fun night, and he received a number of gifts, but none from Sherlock. It wasn't until his friend's threw him their own birthday bash – a casual day of cake and gifts spent at Nate's house – that he heard anything from his Godfather.

Nate was strumming along to the various rock songs on his iTunes, barely listening to whatever conversation they were having. Adam looked at Anthony.

"I have to re-take Algebra next year. I think I'll be in your class."

"That's great," Anthony replied. Finally, he'd have a friend in one of his classes.

"So, when's your Uncle gonna start giving us karate lessons again, eh? I'm starting to feel a little rusty."

Anthony shrugged. "Dunno. I guess you'll have to join a class or something."

"Eh. Too expensive," Adam decided after thinking it over. Chris was singing along to Nate's playing, Come Sail Away having just come on. Anthony was impressed with his friend's voice, but as the song grew more dramatic, his ability to hear his own thoughts was strained. He turned to Christine, who was the only other person in the room other than him who had refrained from shouting out the song's climax. She started laughing.

"So, how does it feel to be a year older?" she asked him, trying to overcome the noise.

"A bit weird," Anthony answered. He motioned to the rest of his friends. "I guess I'm sort of like the baby here."

"Well," Christine reminded him, "I'm still only fourteen. We're the same age."

Anthony could see Chris eyeing the girl strangely, and then watched as his friend looked pointedly away from her as he belted the last notes of the song. Trying to ignore it, he answered: "Yeah, for a couple months, at least."

Despite it being his birthday celebration, Anthony was the first to leave. He'd promised his Mum he'd go home early to help her in the garden, something he still enjoyed despite being older. After saying goodbye to his friends, Chris followed him to the door. "Before you go, An," he said, holding out another wrapped box, "I'm supposed to give this to you." Anthony checked the tag: it was from Sherlock.

"He gave this to you?"

Chris shook his head. "To Mum. Said he missed your party, asked if she'd pass it along." Anthony was a little surprised that Sally Donovan hadn't just thrown it away, but he didn't say anything. She's was Chris' Mother, after all. When he got home, Anthony snuck upstairs to his bedroom and unwrapped his present. It was a mobile phone, with all of his friends' and family's' numbers already programmed into it. Running through different buttons, he noticed that he already had one message in his Inbox.

_Come by the flat tomorrow evening. -SH_

Anthony didn't let himself into the flat that time, instead choosing to knock on the door. Sherlock answered. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"I told them I'm out with Chris."

Sherlock made no indication of disapproval.

"Are you taking me out on a case?"

Sherlock shook his head, and told Anthony to follow him.

They took a cab to a shooting range on the outskirts of the city. Anthony was excited, not only to learn how to use a gun, but to get a chance to spend time with his Godfather again. Sherlock rented the guns, making a joke to Anthony that they might as well go about it the legal way, at least at first. Putting on the necessary mask, Sherlock began to teach Anthony how to aim. His first few tries were terrible, and he couldn't get anywhere near the target on the board ahead of him, but Sherlock was patient. After a full day, Anthony had only hit the board twice. It made him feel a bit better to see that Sherlock didn't hit his target every time...although,_ he _never missed the board.

After that, Sherlock continued giving Anthony gun training lessons, but in a different place every time. Anthony would receive a text the night before specifying the time and place and Anthony would meet him. Usually, they would end up in the woods, and eventually they had come to enjoy shooting by an old, abandoned factory about fifteen minutes outside of the city. Anthony preferred the summer sunshine to the stuffy shooting range, and he enjoyed feeling like an outlaw, since Sherlock would bring his own revolver. There was something so rebellious about it, but he didn't much like lying to his parents, especially his Dad.

He'd made a deal with Chris to say that Anthony was painting the set for one of his plays. It wasn't exactly a lie. Anthony _had _painted the set – he had even designed it - but it only took him three afternoons. The rest were spent with Sherlock, and every day, Anthony was getting a little better. Sherlock wasn't as impressed with his shooting as he'd been with his fighting. Perhaps it was because Anthony was older now, and his Godfather expected more from him. Or, perhaps it was just because Sherlock never seemed to get very excited about anything anymore. Anthony would ask about his cases, and sometimes Sherlock would tell him tidbits about his adventures, but mostly he just wanted to focus on their lessons.

On a Sunday afternoon, as Anthony returned with Sherlock to 221B, he found himself on the subject of his Father. "It's like he doesn't even want me to see you," Anthony was complaining. The day before, Anthony had asked his Dad if Sherlock could come over for dinner, having cooked up a plan to rekindle their friendship.

"I'm sure that's not it," Sherlock told him, his voice ever calm. Who was this man, and what had he done with Anthony's vibrant Godfather?

"But then, why doesn't he even want me coming to the flat? You know he has no idea. Tell me why he's mad at you." Sherlock sighed, but said nothing. Anthony was playing around with the revolver, and when the detective wasn't looking, he put it in his waistband the way he'd seen his Father do so many times before. As Anthony continued whining, he became progressively angrier about his Dad's behaviour, and eventually he couldn't help declaring: "I'm just sick of him treating me like I'm a stupid kid – he's the one acting like a kid!"

_ "ANTHONY WATSON, HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOUR FATHER!"_

Anthony's whole frame stiffened. Sherlock had never snapped like that in front of him before. At a loss for a response, and no knowledge of how to apologize, Anthony ran. It was irrational and dim, but running away was all Anthony knew how to do in that moment, and when he had run as far as he could, he realized that the revolver was still tucked into the back of his waistband, and that he had ended up at the bus stop.

Anthony knew where he was, and he knew where the next bus would take him, so he got on. He ended up by a clearing, and he walked through it to the forest where Sherlock had once taken him to shoot, away from their usual warehouse. Setting a few pieces of litter on a low branch, he began his practice, alone.

He realized after a while that he didn't know what time it was, and when he reached into his pocket to check his mobile, he realized that he had left it at 221B. Had his Uncle tried to call him? Had Mum? It didn't matter. Anthony felt alone, scared, and the only person he wanted to text in that moment was Chris, if only to ask if he could stay the night at his place, unable to face anyone in his family after what had happened. He wasn't sure if he was guilty for what he'd said about his Father, or if he was just in shock from the way Sherlock had reacted. As the sun started to set, and he was pointing the revolver at the same can of Pepsi he'd missed countless times before, he heard a voice from behind him.

"You're aiming too high."

It was Dad, arms crossed, watching him. Anthony froze, and again he had the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go, and his Father seemed relatively calm for a man who'd just found his only Son alone in the woods, shooting a gun. Soon, they were standing next to each other. Anthony let the weapon fall to his waist.

"Your Uncle called me," his Dad told him, voice still oddly calm.

"He did?" Anthony asked, surprised.

"He was terrified, told me he'd scared you off." Sherlock, terrified? "Had no idea where you were, and he said you had his gun."

"I didn't mean to take it." Then: "How'd _you_ find me?" If Sherlock couldn't...

His Father gestured to the weapon. "The gun's got GPS." He answered Anthony's next question immediately: "It was a present from Mycroft, years ago. Sherlock didn't realize...well." His Dad made an amused face. Of course. It was Mycroft's way of keeping tabs on his Brother's whereabouts, and it had just come in handy in the search for Anthony, as well.

Anthony hung his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, but wasn't met with a response. Instead, his Father reached toward his hand and took the revolver from it. He started inspecting the weapon. "You won't let me see him again, will you?" Anthony asked suddenly.

"What are you talking about?"

"I had to sneak out to see him, but now you'll have Mycroft after me if I do. But you can't do that, Dad! You can't!"

His Father looked shocked. He opened his mouth, but closed it soon after. Then, he opened it again. "What are you talking about? I never said you couldn't see Sherlock."

It was true, Anthony realized, but his thoughts were jumbled, and he was scared. He tried to justify himself. "You hate him. You do." Again, he was met with those shocked eyes. "You won't even talk to him anymore."

The man sighed and started shaking his head. Did he looked disappointed? "Anthony, I never wanted to stop talking to your Godfather-"

"-Yes, you did! You told him not to come to my birthday!"

"No." The voice was firm. "It was the other way around." Another sigh. "Sherlock stopped talking to me."

Anthony could have gasped, but he stopped himself. "Why?" he asked, dumbstruck.

A shrug. "You'd have to ask him. Anthony, I would never try to cut Sherlock out of our lives," he added, as if realizing what his Son must have thought. There was a silence between them for a moment, and then the taller man took the place of the smaller, and steadily aimed the revolver at the tenacious Pepsi can. Without skipping a beat, Anthony's Father pulled the trigger, leaving a perfect, bullet sized hole in the flimsy metal. The can took a second to fall from it's branch, the timing of the scene almost comical. Anthony gaped at his Dad.

"Where'd you learn to do _that?_" he asked, agog The answer was just as surprising as the action itself:

"My father taught me, originally. It wasn't something I perfected until Afghanistan, though."

"Afghanistan?" Anthony's brow furrowed. "You were a soldier?"

His Father nodded. "Army Doctor," he said, simply, and suddenly Anthony understood exactly why Sherlock had so much respect for him. He took no pride in his army past, no satisfaction in the sacrifices he must have made. He was a soldier, but foremost, he was a doctor.

"How could I not know?" the teenager asked.

"It's not something I like to talk about, much."

"Does Mum know?"

A slight chuckle. "'Course she does."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Anthony had always known his Father was a great man, even when he didn't seem like one, but this went beyond just being a good person who was nice to his friends: his Dad was a hero.

Not answering, Anthony's Father walked towards the branch and balanced the bent up can back atop it. He handed the revolver to Anthony. "Aim from eye level." Anthony pointed his weapon at the can, and his hand quivered, as it always did before he fired.

"I always chicken out," he told his Dad, who smiled at the statement.

"Nah, you're just a little timid about it." Anthony frowned, offended. "I'd be worried if you weren't," his Father added, noting his expression. Anthony lined up his shot again, determined to hit the can this time. He fired.

And he grazed it. The can fell off the branch a little belated, just as it had before, but it was the first time Anthony had ever hit his target.

"See? Eye level."

They spent some more time practising together, but eventually the sun had set, and neither could see well enough in the darkness to continue. It was the parent, of course, who made the decision to head home.

"Cab or bus, you think?"

"There's a bus that'll take us back to Baker Street, then we can hop on the one I usually take to get home. I think it'll still be running." His Father approved of the travel plans, well-aware that Anthony was as good as Sherlock when it came to the transit routes, and when they were on the bus, Anthony realized that they still had Sherlock's gun. "We'll have to give – _it –_ back to him."

A sigh. "Would you like to do it now?" They were almost at Baker Street. Anthony nodded. When they got off the bus, his Dad paused, as if deciding whether or not he could hand a gun to his son in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Just come in," Anthony suggested. Seeing no other option, his Father accepted, and Anthony unlocked the door to the flat. They went up the stairs, and Anthony knocked on the door. It didn't take long for Sherlock to answer. He was holding out Anthony's phone.

"You left this here," he said awkwardly, ignoring the fact that he'd assumed Anthony missing only hours earlier.

"Yeah, thanks," Anthony said, taking it. Sherlock was staring at John, his eyebrows crossed, and his lips pressed together. He looked like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.

"You found him." It was such an obvious statement coming from such a brilliant man.

"I had help." He gave the detective his revolver.

Sherlock's brows furrowed even more as he observed the weapon, and then his lips twitched upward. "Mycroft."

"'Course."

"I really shouldn't be surprised anymore."

"I didn't think you ever were."

Anthony watched the two men, noting the ease with which they spoke to one another, even after all the time they had spent apart. It was as if no amount of anger could really come between them. They had fought, yes, but it hadn't placed their friendship on hold. They just needed time to come up with a compromise, time to cool down. He looked up (but not by much) at his Father.

"Dad, I think I'm gonna head home. Bus is coming in a minute," he lied, but neither seemed to notice.

"Alright, let's go then." His Father was already making to leave, but Anthony poked at his arm.

"No...no, you have to stay and call Mycroft. Let him know I'm alright."

"I'm sure Sherlock will tell him-"

"-And you need to tell him to mind his own business and stop stalking Uncle Sher...lock." Anthony had his own arms crossed now, and he glanced at Sherlock. The detective was eyeing him suspiciously, becoming increasing aware of Anthony's plan. "You know Mum doesn't like it when you yell on the phone. Best to stay and do it here."

"I have work in the m-"

"-Sorry, Dad, gotta go! The bus is coming!" Anthony bounded down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind him. He walked leisurely over to the bus stop, which would be vacant for the next few minutes, and watched the door to 221B. His Father still hadn't left by the time the bus finally came, and Anthony knew that his scheme had worked. He got on the bus and made his way home, crossing his fingers that the Great Detective and his Army Doctor would use that time to make up. They had to.


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Notes: **Chapter twenty-seven? Are you kidding me? This is by far the lengthiest fic I've ever written, and the most rewarding, and I wouldn't be doing it if it wasn't for all of your incredibly generous and kind words. Thank you all so much for your support. I can't believe I've broken a hundred reviews! You're all stars! Also, on a completely unrelated note, but speaking of stars: I just watched Hawking. Amazing film, both for the subject matter and the unreal performances. Go check it out, you won't regret it! Oh, and if you like this chapter, leave me a quick little note (or a big long one!) to let me know!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Seven<strong>

John was standing awkwardly in the doorway, watching as his son ran out of 221B. It was clear what he was trying to accomplish: Anthony wanted him to make things right with Sherlock, but that was exactly what he'd been trying to do all along.

It had been Sherlock who pulled away, who had cut off communication with his friend. John tried to call, but Sherlock was short, and would always come up with some excuse for why they couldn't meet up and chat about everything that needed discussing. In a way, it was the first time Sherlock hadn't come back, only his distancing wasn't physical, it was emotional instead. Sherlock was _choosing _to distance himself from the Watsons, and for a while, he had succeeded.

Except for Anthony. Sherlock could avoid John and Mary, and he could bury himself endlessly into his work, but he couldn't give up Anthony Watson. The young man had burrowed his way into Sherlock's soul, and the detective was addicted to his presence and adoration as much as he was to the drug that threatened to tear them apart. John thought of the relationship that the two shared, and the was that he used to envy the way that Anthony worshipped his Godfather – but then, hadn't John felt the same way about the detective? Anthony wasn't replacing John, he had just found another man to look up to alongside him. If anything, Sherlock was the one replacing John with Anthony, two men who were indebted to him. Sherlock had tried to escape his role, escape the duty he had to them, and John had let him. It was Anthony who persisted, who wouldn't let go his grasp on Sherlock, and John envied his son for that.

"It's not true, is it? There's no bus," John stated, breaking the silence that had formed between himself and Sherlock.

"No, there is one," Sherlock told him. "It just doesn't come for another few minutes."

"How many?"

"Nine or ten."

"Right..." John felt awkward. "I'll go wait for it, then..."

"You could wait inside." Sherlock seemed mildly flustered. "Have a cup of tea?"

"Skip the cuppa." John let himself in, and out of habit, went directly to his usual seat in the living room. Sherlock did not join him, did not sit opposite him. Instead, he lingered on the wall next the the now closed door. John looked around the room. It was tidy, as it had been for years, but overly so: Sherlock had cleaned it meticulously. Obsessively, even. There wasn't a stitch of clutter, and it the papered walls _could_ sparkle, John had the inkling that they might have.

"I've been...trying to make productive use of my time," Sherlock informed John, reading his mind. After such a long time apart, how could he still do that? John continued to observe the room, and when he looked into Sherlock's open office – his own former bedroom – the mess he expected to find concealed there was absent. Sherlock had a great deal of spare time, it seemed. Perhaps too much, even.

"You going to sit?" John asked him. Sherlock shrugged, but remained balanced against the wall, eyeing John as carefully as he would a criminal, as if he expected him to run off or disappear at any moment. Sherlock didn't want him to go, but he didn't know what to do with him while he remained. "Long time no word," John said, deciding not to ignore the elephant in the room.

"I called you this afternoon."

"Emergency. Hardly counts."

"We're talking now."

"Are we, though?"

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose I have been rather...distant."

"Absent is more like it." John pursed his lips, a little guiltily.

"That's fair," Sherlock said, evading eye-contact.

"You going to tell me why I haven't heard from you in months? Why you've been ignoring my calls?"

"I didn't ignore them!" Sherlock looked adamant.

"Alright. _Disregarding _them, then. Why?"

Sherlock looked as though he might actually answer, but then John heard a familiar alarm going off. Sherlock took his mobile from his pocket to shut it off, and ventured to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water. Peering at John out of the corner of his eye, he went into one of his drawers and pulled out a small canister of pills. He took two, not bothering to turn his back, and replaced the bottle to the drawer. He left the glass in the sink, and then returned to his position on the wall.

"I never knew you to follow a prescription," John tried to joke, realizing halfway through that it wasn't a humourous subject.

"Well, Mycroft was insistent." Sherlock crossed his arms. "They do seem to help."

"Good," John stated, honestly. "And how are things going with all...that?"

"I've not had another incident, if that's what you're asking."

"Good. I'm glad." John looked at Sherlock's hands. "You're not so shaky anymore."

"You want to discuss it." It was a deduction, not an enquiry.

"Yes," John admitted, "but I wasn't sure if you'd be willing to."

"Perhaps..." Sherlock appeared the consider the offer. "...Not."

"How come?"

Sherlock sighed, sounding more exasperated than he did annoyed. "I discuss it regularly. Mycroft has set up appointments for me. Not with him, of course." He looked as though he would have preferred therapy with his brother.

"That bad, eh?" Sherlock smirked, but only for a moment. "Well, you're more than welcome to call me. I'm sure Mycroft would be more than happy to arrange the switch, even, if you'd like."

"You're not that kind of doctor, John."

"No." It was true. In fact, John Watson had received rubbish marks in his psychology courses back at school – at least, in comparison with his success in the more medical subjects. However, he suspected that this would differ greatly from his time at school. "I got top grades in bedside manner, though," he joked, again realizing too late how _not good _his own jest had been. "I just figured you'd rather chat with a friend."

"No." Sherlock's tone was firm, and then it became defeated. "It wouldn't be fair to you – to make you listen to all of it."

"Is anyone going to hear it, then? You don't except to believe you're _actually _opening up to whichever psychiatrist Mycroft's stuck you with." Another brief smirk from Sherlock. "Are you afraid I'll be mad?" It was something John used to say to Anthony, when his son seemed to be keeping secrets from him. "I won't be," he went on as he observed Sherlock's reaction to the question. "I'm not your father."

Sherlock made a strange face, and it suddenly hit John: Sherlock never _had _a father. Not really. He had a mother – a Mummy, if Mycroft's pet names for her were any indication – but his father-figure had been replaced by an older brother. Had Mycroft's presence been enough? He doted on Sherlock, but in the way that a mother would, not so much a Dad.

Did that leave John as his father? No. Absolutely not. Sure, sometimes Sherlock acted like a kid, and John did occasional feel as if he was constantly looking after the man, but the way he felt about Sherlock was entirely separate from how he felt about Anthony. Sherlock was his friend, and John acted as a confidant for him. Sherlock was John's confidant as well. His brother, even – which was why it had stung so much when Sherlock decided to pull away.

And then John had another realization: Sherlock had left everyone, but not Anthony. Was it possible that he was filling the void his absentee parent had left by becoming one himself? Was he channelling all of his missing inklings of Fatherhood into Anthony, his Godson?

Perhaps, John realized, he learned more at University than he had initially given himself credit for.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke his train of though. "I want to apologize. That's important. Apparently," he added sourly, but John could tell that Sherlock genuinely felt inclined to complete the task his therapist had set out for him.

"You don't have to."

"I'm sorry I worried you," Sherlock old him anyway, and as if it opened a doorway to all of his guilt, he went on: "I'm sorry I acted irrationally, and I'm sorry I did...what I did." He could not bring himself to talk about the event, the one months earlier that had filled John's chest with fury when he got the call from Mycroft telling him to rush over to 221B as quickly as possible. John didn't want to bring it up again.

"I still don't know why you shut me out."

"You needed me gone."

"I never wanted that!"

"I didn't say you did."

"You're being irrational _now,_" John told him, annoyed.

"You can't deny that you were angry at me."

"That's true. I was. But...you have to admit, Sherlock: you were wired. You weren't rationalizing properly for a while there and...and I have a responsibility."

"I know. To your child. To your wife."

"Don't patronize me," said John, pointing a finger at his friend. He was trying to remain calm, but Sherlock wasn't making it easy.

"On the contrary," Sherlock told him, sincerely, "I am well-aware of your responsibilities to your family. I wouldn't have it any other way. You need to protect them, John. They require your focus." He finally made eye-contact with John, and dropped it a second later. "I will no longer be a distraction to you."

John wished that he could punch Sherlock Holmes in the face, but he was sitting down, and it wouldn't do either of them any good. "You bloody git." He brought his fist to his forehead, and opened it to rub obstinately at his temples. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Sherlock seemed truly curious.

John sighed before answering. "You're not a distraction, and if you are...well, then you must be my absolutely favourite one."

Sherlock gaped. "What are you saying?"

"I told you before: you're family. I have a responsibility to you as much as anyone."

"But...you were worried about Anthony with me..."

"That doesn't mean I wanted to kick you out of my house! And I wasn't worried...in the way you think I was. I was just...I was worried about_ you, _Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want you to have to do that."

"Tough." John was concise. "Like I said, you're family, and – God help me – I love you. We all love you."

Sherlock looked like he was about to move from his position against the wall, but he remained stationary, opening and closing his mouth in disbelief. "I don't know what to say," he admitted.

"Oh, don't look so shocked. We've only known each other – what is it now? Twenty years?"

"Nearly. But in fairness, I was absent for at least a quarter of them."

"Probably more. But you weren't _gone._ Never _really._"

The two men watched one another from across the room, each waiting for the other to break the silence that had formed between them. Twenty years of friendship lived within that void: twenty years of trust, loyalty and a bond that wasn't ever supposed to break. In the wordless silence, a noise came in through the open window. It sped down the street in a whoosh of sound.

"That was your bus," Sherlock announced in a mumble.

"I'll get the next one."

"That's in forty minutes." Sherlock lifted his back off the wall. "Tea?"

"Sure."

Sherlock strode into the kitchen where he turned the kettle on. He watched it as it boiled for a minute before moving to the cabinet for two cups. As the water reached a boil, he started to speak:

"John...I suppose it goes without saying that I...what I mean to say is..." Sherlock cleared his throat. John watched his friend in disbelief, wondering if he could actually get the words out. "I love you, as well." He could.

A moment of silence, and John decided to be generous. "Yeah – kind of reached that one on my own. Milk, no sugar." He grinned, and then: "You dumb sod."


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Notes:** Before we start, to those who have seen Third Star, the beach in this chapter is absolutely inspired by that one, even though thematically there is nothing here like the movie. Just the beach and its prettiness. I also wish to congratulate myself for finding a way to use the word 'chuffed' in this chapter. It's not as easy as it looks. And now that we've begun...here you go. Another chapter, for all of your sweet reviews and responses! You people rock - lemme know what you think! I always really enjoy hearing about your favourite lines and bits.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Eight<strong>

A cup of tea was all it took to feel normal again, and by the time John returned home late that night, he felt as though his friendship with Sherlock had been fully mended. They started taking cases again, John limited the ones he went out on to weekends, and Sherlock came to the house regularly to visit Anthony – and Mary. It had been John's recommendation that if Sherlock didn't feel comfortable discussing his addiction with him, he could try doing so with Mary.

It had worked out well. Mary did not relay anything Sherlock told her to John, but she had admitted that he was absolutely opening up. The two, over the years, had built up a trust with one another, and while Mary wasn't Sherlock's _best _friend, she was a secure confidant, and someone whose opinion Sherlock respected immensely. No, she wasn't doctor, or a proper therapist, but she was an open listener and a calming spirit.

By Christmas, Sherlock was starting to feel like his old self again, and he had even told John that his cravings had lessened significantly, making him feel at ease from them at most times. There were still moments, of course, in which John would notice his friend staring off into the distance, or rubbing his eyes uncomfortably, but he was much better than he had been before. Even Anthony noticed it.

John was spending a great deal more time with his son, mostly because he had taken over for Sherlock in teaching him how to shoot. That was Sherlock's idea, and Anthony seemed to enjoy the arrangement. Perhaps he found it more dull, all of their lessons taking place at the actual shooting range, but Anthony _was _getting to be a better shot, and he was learning faster with his Dad than he had been with Sherlock.

Anthony was growing up so quickly, and as the new year came, he was nearly as tall as his father. It stung Mary the most, who was sad to see her little boy growing up so fast. "Remember yesterday, when he was _this big?_" she would jest often, holding up various toddler sized items. John would smile sadly, and if Sherlock was present, even he would get a reminiscent look on his face, thinking of how young Anthony used to be.

Along with school, shooting lessons, the newspaper, and painting sets, Anthony's friends took up most of time, and John was finding that the boy rarely went to Sherlock's anymore, especially without Chris Donovan going along with him. Sally had no idea that her son ever went to 221B, usually thinking that he was at the Watson home, and none of them were about to tell her about it. Occasionally, John could tell that Sherlock was tempted to say something, if only to rile her up when they found themselves simultaneously working on a case with Lestrade, but he wouldn't. He knew that if Chris couldn't come to the flat, there was a chance that Anthony might stop going, too.

Which was why it was no surprise that when Sherlock's gift for Anthony's fifteenth birthday was a weekend camping trip with himself and John, he went so far as to _suggest _having Chris come along, too. Sally, still unaware of Chris lies about visiting Sherlock's flat, surprised all of them by allowing the trip. Anthony had begged her, and there hadn't been any events in recent years to indicate particular danger, so she had complied. "Just don't have any of your usual haphazardous antics," she threatened. Sherlock waited for her back to turn before rolling his eyes.

The boys – the men? - were heading to a camping ground far outside of London, hiking to their preferred spot for the trip. They had taken a rental car to the park, and then they had to carry their bags and supplies to a clearing by the water. It was early in the summer, and Anthony's actual birthday had been about a week earlier, but Sherlock expected that they would be the only ones there.

He was right. It took hours to walk to the chosen site, during which time Anthony forced Chris to relay all of his exciting tales from the previous school year to John and Sherlock. It surprised John that Sherlock seemed to like Chris as much as he did, despite his being Sally's son. Perhaps it was the way that Chris always brought the conversation back around to include Anthony, complimenting his achievements genuinely; or, maybe it was just the fact that despite being a sixteen-year old teenage boy, he was very polite and easygoing. He didn't seem to hold any of his mother's arrogance, but at the same time, he did not disrespect her, which impressed Sherlock as much as it did John.

And, most of all, it was clear to see how well he and Anthony got along, playing off of each other like characters on a stage, deeply intuitive of one another's emotions and ideas. In a way – even without the cases that they used to play at as kids – they reminded John of his own relationship with Sherlock. Chris, however, was nothing like the detective. If Anthony was like John, then the other boy's tenderness and unabashed affection for him did not quite mirror Sherlock's own ways of showing companionship. The friendship was the same, the closeness equally evident, the the indications varied.

There was still some daylight when they arrived at the empty beach Sherlock had picked, and all of them found great difficulty in the task of setting up the two tents they had brought along with them. John recalled a night a few weeks before, when Sherlock had come to the house to help Anthony with a particularly difficult science project for school. It had turned into an experiment – as if often did with Sherlock Holmes – in mixing different chemicals together. John joined them curiously as Sherlock poured different fluids into a mixing jar.

"Now, the really interesting thing is what happens when you shake it," he told Anthony as he closed the lid. John leaned in from his seat to get a better look.

The Mary appeared in the doorway of the living room. "You boys had better not get anything on my carpet!" she scolded. Sherlock had already given the jar to Anthony. The teen started to shake it, but Mary stopped him: "Oh, don't you _dare_! That's it – no experiments in the living room!"

"Aw, Mom!"

"It's perfectly safe."

"Mary!"

But the damage was already done, and as they each complained in perfect unison, the jar exploded within Anthony's (luckily gloved) hands. Foam was spouting everywhere, growing impressively quickly and covering the three _'scientists.'_ Anthony started giggling first, but within seconds they were all convulsing in the pool of bubbles, laughing hysterically.

"I have three children!" Mary had announced, throwing her arms out above her head to indicate her annoyance, but John could hear the hint of amusement in her tone, and he could see the twinkle that resided in her eyes.

John looked down at his mobile as he thought about his wife, but as expected, they were out of any proper service area.

Eventually, they had conquered the tents, and the sun had started to set. Anthony and Chris built a fire as John and Sherlock prepared to cook dinner. Sherlock eyed the boys curiously, and he even grinned when he saw Anthony laughing at Chris, who was dramatically performing a fire-calling chant he had improvised. They all ate and chatted as they watched the sunset, and after planning out their adventures for the next day, they decided to tuck in early.

John and Sherlock were sharing a tent, which meant that John was forced awake multiple times throughout the night, Sherlock proving to be a rather active sleeper. They got up at dawn, and John was exhausted from his night of battling with the unconsciously violent Sherlock Holmes.

After breakfast, the decided fare for the day was an exceptionally long walk, followed by a cool swim. Anthony had brought his camera along, and would often wander off the path to photograph the beautiful landscape, sometimes insisting that members of the group pose for him. John was glad that his son wanted to have some personal photos from the trip, proving how much he was enjoying it. It was going to be a weekend they would never forget.

Chris, on the other hand, had started the day in very good spirits, but by the end of the hike, when they were going for an afternoon dip, he was electing to sit out on the beach. He looked pale, and kept absently rubbing at his arms, which were crossed over his stomach.

"Probably just something I ate," he told John when the doctor asked what was wrong. Chris still seemed to be enjoying the sunlight and the surroundings, and as the sun set that night, he was the one insisting that they tell scary stories around the campfire, the kid in him – and in all of them – returning with a vengeance.

After three of them had taken a turn describing their various horrific tales, it fell upon Sherlock to tell his own spooky story. John knew from Sherlock's bookshelf that the man had a great interest in and knowledge of old spooky literature, but as he reluctantly started to speak, John realized quickly that the tale he had elected to tell just so happened to be a true one...

"I was twenty-three at the time...I'd gone back to school for a second degree after years of being out of it, but less than a semester after re-enrolling I realized that it was not the right place for me. So, I left, and I decided to travel instead. The first place I went was Warsaw, and it did not disappoint."

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "I don't think you're quite getting the point, here."

"You've hardly given me the chance. Trust me, this story will have you frightened for days – it frightened me, for goodness sakes."

John shrugged. If it scared Sherlock Holmes, it must have been truly freaky.

"It was early in my visit that I found myself in the middle of a particularly unique case, one in which a very expensive jewel belonging to a major political figure's wife had been stolen, and found again smuggled into the underground caves of Warsaw. Disguising myself as a local officer, I went into the caves, and it obviously didn't take me long to find the jewel – a ring. However, what I didn't expect to find was its smuggler.

"He was a rather old man, tall, but bent over, and with a chipped tooth in the front. He carried no weapons but his own wit, which impressed me as much as it would anyone. Truly, I believe that he may have been my greatest enemy, were he physically fit enough to not be taken out by the other detectives whom I had followed underground. He was immediately arrested, and after a night in custody, the officers found that he had somehow escaped his cell.

"I went back to the caves unescorted. It was dangerous, as the terrain within them is terrible and there's always the chance of the rock falling in, but I knew that it was where he would go. I found him back where the jewel had been, and we had a verbal face-off unlike any I have had since. He seemed to know everything there was to know about me, except for my name."

"Was he like you?" Chris asked.

"How do you mean?"

"He means...could he deduce things like you could?" Anthony clarified. Both boys were leaning forward, enthralled by Sherlock's tale.

"Oh yes. Better than I could, at the time. I had never been beaten at that before, except by Mycroft. No...this man was brilliant, and after proving to him that we were unfairly matched physically, he consented to a night of discussion."

"What did you discuss?" Anthony asked, again drawing Sherlock out of the story.

"Various things, mainly the dullness that was found in the minds of others. We saw eye to eye on many things, in fact, but as I left, I informed him that I would of course be leading the police back to where he was, so he could be captured once again. He merely laughed, and said:

"_'My friend – I say friend – I will not move a muscle.'_

"So, I left him in the cave."

"And he just sat there, waiting to be caught?" Chris' face was scrunched up in confusion.

Sherlock smirked. "You could say that. I raced to the police station, and informed their leading detective of his whereabouts. We raced back to the cave...only he wasn't there. There was no trace of any life, but for one thing..." He paused.

"What?"

"What was it?"

_ "Uncle!"_

John felt his heartbeat quicken as he fearfully awaited the ending of Sherlock's story. Sherlock leaned forward. "There, in the shadows, we found the skeleton of a tall man. I was able to easily date it as being dead for at least seventy years. I would have been sure of that, too, if it weren't for one thing: the skull's teeth were uneven. The front tooth was chipped."

A shiver rushed down all of their spines. John had a revelation. "The skull...that's...you kept the skull, didn't you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Stole it from the station. It always proved to be a rather good familiar."

John rolled his eyes. "So you kept that haunted thing in our flat, just to chat with it?"

"John, you always knew I spoke to it. Until you came along, that is."

"I didn't know it was bloody haunted!"

Chris raised a hand, unnecessarily: "The skull? Do you mean Yorick?"

"Chris calls him Yorick," Anthony explained of Sherlock's skull.

"I've often addressed him as that myself, as a matter of fact," Sherlock told them, smiling. Chris looked absolutely chuffed.

John was still mortified. "No wonder Mrs. Hudson always hated that thing."

"Yes...she always said it gave her a bad feeling. Quite likely, if it is in fact haunted."

John could only roll his eyes. "Well, on that note: bed?"

He was met with the agreement of the group. After a brief goodnight, they separated into their two tents, and John was still asking Sherlock about his adventures in Siberia as they tucked underneath their sheets. After finishing some more – less frightening – stories, Sherlock lay his head down. "It's good that Anthony has so few friends," he told John, who raised an eyebrow.

"How do you mean?" he asked, confused by the statement.

"Well...they are few, but they are select. Quality over quantity, as it were."

John chuckled. "Yeah. Well, if you're only going to have a couple, pick the good ones."

"Yes..." Silence fell upon the tent. There was no sound from Chris or Anthony's either, apart from the low hum of their steady breathing. John suspected that they were asleep.

"He's a good kid, Chris."

"Hardly a kid. But yes," Sherlock agreed, "He's a good companion for Anthony."

"Admit it. You like him." Sherlock said nothing, but tilted his head as a lazy shrug, indicating his acceptance of John's accusation. "It's pretty impressive, how sweet he is, considering he's only ever had Sally to raise him."

"Oh, don't be so cruel," Sherlock scolded, but his amusement was evident.

"Who's his Dad, d'you reckon?" It was something John had always wanted to ask, but had never built up the gall to do so.

"It's not Anderson, if that's what you're insinuating, John," Sherlock informed him. "No...I'm not sure it's anyone we've ever met. At least," he added, "I didn't. I was away at the time, as you recall."

"Yeah..." John tried to remember that time, but it was so long ago, and his memories of new faces were blurry. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"Precisely. Besides: one should never be judged by their parents."

The conversation went on for a few more minutes before both men silently agreed that it was time to rest. John suspected that while Sherlock was laying in the tent, it was unlikely that he would actually get any sleep that night, having done so the one before. John, on the other hand, was completely exhausted, and he fell soundly asleep just after considering Sherlock's own habits.

And then he woke up to the cry.

There was light outside, but not much. Dawn. The sound had come from Anthony. John and Sherlock were both up and unzipping the tent in seconds, sprinting to the other nearby one. "Dad!" he could hear his son calling him, and John opened the zipper to the other tent violently. Inside, he saw Anthony clutching Chris' arms, the older boy convulsing in what appeared to be unequalled pain.

"Get him outside," John ordered, and Sherlock helped him carry the moaning boy out of the tent. John felt his forehead: burning. Chris' eyes were wet with tears, and he kept reaching towards something, but John grabbed his hands, preventing him from worsening the problem. "Where does it hurt?" He asked, sounding a little too demanding. He was vaguely reminded of the battlefield, but he tried to push those thoughts away.

Chris tried to speak, but he was hyperventilating. John passed his hands to Anthony, who held onto them despite Chris' protesting. John tried to slow his breathing, and rubbed the sweat from his face with one of the blankets from the tent. As he did so, though, he heard Sherlock addressing him.

"John..." he had called, sounding marvelled. John looked at his friend, who had lifted up Chris' t-shirt, revealing his stomach. On the right side, there was a light bruise. John gently placed his hand over the area, and then rested it down. Chris shrieked.

"Oh no..." John muttered as he pulled out his mobile phone. _No service. _ "Oh...God, no..."

"What's wrong?" Anthony demanded, his tears starting to form. "Dad, what _is_ it?"

They were at least an hour's walk away from the nearest service area, and Chris Donovan's appendix was about to burst.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Notes: ** I don't know what to say here anymore, so...just...thank you. Thank you so much for all of your support and reviews. You rock my world! Sorry it's so short, but I like it, so I'm posting it! Please enjoy and send me your thoughts and reviews.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Nine<strong>

"We could carry him back!" Anthony suggested as John held his mobile out to Sherlock, instructing him to run back to a service area.

"No, we can't move him. We need an ambulance – a helicopter."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"If you can get a hold of him."

Sherlock eyed Chris' side, and clarity washed over his face. "It can't be..." he whispered.

"It is," John answered callously as he removed his jumped to place underneath Chris Donovan's head. "Don't bite your lip," he ordered the boy, who was trying extremely hard to keep a brave face. He was still tugging at his hands, trying to free them so he could touch the pained area, but Anthony held on tightly, not letting him. John turned to Sherlock, handing him the mobile he was lucky to have slept with in his pocket. "You need to get to a service area. Go!"

Sherlock didn't waste any time. He took the phone and dashed away, fully understanding the stakes. John closed his eyes for a moment, and considered praying. _Just one more hour...give him one more hour..._

"Dad, what's wrong with him?" Anthony kept demanding, a single tear escaping his eyes.

John sighed and looked down at Chris, who wanted to know as much as Anthony did. "Chris, don't panic: it's your appendix. I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he added as Chris' breathing excelerated. John took him through a series of deep breaths, preventing him from hyperventilating.

"Isn't he too old?" Anthony asked.

"Not that old."

"What about Mycroft? Maybe he's watching us!" Anthony cried, and stood. "Mycroft – Mr. Holmes!" he yelled into the bushes, but John knew it was in vain. Sherlock would have known if Mycroft's people were there, if they were being protected. They weren't. Nothing was supposed to go wrong that weekend.

"Anthony, I need you keep holding his hands," John told his son, who reluctantly stopped yelling and complied. Chris, despite his impressive silence, had a face full of tears.

Anthony wiped them for him. "S'alright. Dad's a doctor. You're going to be alright." Chris closed his eyes tightly, his face screwed up in pain. Anthony glared into his father. "What do you have to do?"

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, isn't there something you can do for him? Don't you have to...take it out, or something?" Chris made a terrified, strangled sound.

Again, John sighed. "An, there's nothing I can do. Not out here."

"Can't you help it to hurt less, at least?"

John couldn't speak, he could only shake his head. Without tools or an operating table, there was no way for him to help his son's ailing friend.

"Mr. Watson..." Chris mumbled after a few minutes of quiet waiting.

"Yes, Chris?"

"I think I'm...I'm tired..." His eyelids were closing.

"I need you to stay awake for me, Chris. Can you do that?"

The boy was sweating profusely, and his jaw was tight. He gave a painful nod, but he still looked like he was about to faint. Just as John was about to race into action, Anthony started to speak:

"Your mum's gonna be so mad when she finds out about this," he told Chris, who, to John's surprise, laughed. Anthony grinned. "Just think: she gets a call, says Sherlock's nearly gotten you killed. I think she'll have his tongue on a plate."

"Like Titus Andro..." he couldn't finish the word as he twitched.

"Yeah, like Titus Andronicus," Anthony helped, and continued telling Chris about all the ways that his mother would go after Sherlock. Now and then, Chris would smile or chuckle, and while he was still in great pain, he was alert. John checked his pulse every few minutes, and checked his watch often. Sherlock had only been gone around twenty minutes so far. John hoped that he had perhaps found another service area, that a satellite just happened to be floating overhead, but he knew it was highly unlikely. All that they could do was wait.

And there were the boys: were they aware of the dangers, or were they just happy to be together in one's time of need? Anthony had put on a brave face, but that first tear still lingered upon his cheek, frozen in time. This, and no other moment, was the one where John realized exactly how like His and Sherlock's relationship the boys' had to be. There was no other person in the world who could give Chris the sort of comfort he needed, no one else who could distract him from the pain John knew he was experiencing. Anthony was his strength, just as John was Sherlock's, or vice-versa.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and still no sign of Sherlock. John cursed himself silently for not making better arrangements, for not thinking that they may need to make an emergency call. Mostly, he hated that he couldn't do anything: he was a doctor, after all. The scene reminded him of the battlefield, where he had been rendered useless multiple times before. Even the best doctor couldn't save every life when they were without their tools.

Another five minutes of remembrance, and suddenly John could hear Chris addressing him. "Mr. Watson..." he called softly.

"Yes?"

To John's amazement, Chris smiled. "It...it doesn't hurt anymore."

John felt as though he could vomit. He gently pushed Anthony out from beside Chris. They let go of each other's hands, and Chris started toward's his side. "No!" John yelled, grabbing hold of the wandering extremities. "Don't touch it..." John's heart was beating so quickly...too quickly...and his mind was racing.

"That's good! That's good, isn't it Dad?" Anthony was half-grinning, realizing that something wasn't right. John looked at his son warningly and shook his head, hoping that Chris wouldn't notice. _Hurry, Sherlock..._

It didn't take long for Chris' face to fall as the pain returned, and this time with a vengeance. His appendix had ruptured, that much was certain, and there was nothing John could do. The scream was what broke his heart the most, and then he was most certainly back on the battlefield, watching in horror what he had no way of fixing. Chris was writhing and whining in pain, and Anthony stole his friend's hands from his father's. He tried the light conversation tactic again, but it was no use. Chris couldn't hear him anymore, couldn't process anything except for the poison that was slowly creeping through his insides. John kept telling Chris to remain awake, but the teen was drifting off.

"Don't you dare!" Anthony was ordering. In one hand he held Chris' down, preventing him from grabbing his side; in the other hand, he was gently slapping his friend's face, trying to revive him as he started to faint. John checked his watch. _Three minutes since the rupture...Sherlock gone for forty-five minutes..._

It was getting too late. Racing into battle-mode, John started doing everything he could think of to keep Chris alive. The boy had fallen unconscious, and his skin was bruising worse and worse on his right side. Defeated, John froze. Anything else would just make it worse. Anthony was looking at him pleadingly, as if willing him to do something amazing, but John couldn't perform miracles.

Luckily, though, Sherlock Holmes could. John heard the helicopter before he saw it, and within minutes he was riding inside, a hand on his son's shoulder.

A little longer, and there they were in Mycroft's secret facility.

It didn't take long for Sally Donovan to get there, and when she did, there was no anger in her eyes, no scorching remarks on her lips. She just entered the waiting room, sat down, and clasped her hands together. She didn't look upset, or even vengeful: she simply looked weak. Weak and worried. John, Sherlock and Anthony were across the room, Anthony pacing back and forth restlessly. Sally glanced up at them occasionally, but she didn't say a word. It seemed like forever before one of the medics was striding down the hallway to where they'd been left, and Sally beat Anthony to him. She didn't request news of her son verbally: her presence was more than enough to demand it.

"He's going to be fine," the doctor announced, and John's heart began to beat again.

"Let me see him," Sally said, as if she were ordering him to lead her to the recovery room, but the doctor shook his head.

"They need a few more minutes to set him up. I'll send the nurse back for you then."

Sally didn't fight him. She glanced at Anthony, who was breathing heavily as if he hadn't for days, and then returned to her seat. John watced her in amazement: this was not the Sally Donovan he knew, not the arrogant, endlessly rude woman he had met nineteen years earlier. This was just a scared mother like any other. Then, as if there was something in the water, Sherlock approached her. She looked up at him.

"This is my fault," he told her, and John tried not to gape. "We were too far out of the service area, it took me too long to return to-"

"-Stop it. Just...stop it." Sally too then stood. She pushed her shoulders back and shook the hair out of her face, preparing herself for what John assumed was going to be a hard backlashing...but it wasn't. "You had no idea that was going to happen. It's me: I should have known. He was feeling off before...I shouldn't have let him go."

Sherlock looked entirely wordless, an uncommon occurance for the brilliant man. Anthony filled in for him. "He would have found a way to _make_ you let him."

Sally did an incredible thing: she smiled. "Yes. He would have, wouldn't he?" It didn't take long for the nurse to come into the waiting room and beckon for Sally to join her. She made to follow, but then looked back at Anthony. "You want to come?" Anthony didn't need to be asked twice. He bounded after her, each rushing to see Chris. John had never gotten much of a chance to see Anthony and Sally together, never had the oppourtunity to learn about their dynamic. He knew that Anthony wasn't her biggest fan, and Sally had behaved selfishly years earlier, allowing him to be bullied. But one thing was for sure: Sally knew Anthony, and he knew her. They had spent enough time close together that they must have formed some sort of bond, whether it be particularly civil or otherwise, and as they left John and Sherlock bewildered in the waiting room, John could almost make out Sally saying to Anthony, "By the way: happy birthday."


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Notes: ** Helloooo out there! How is everyone doing? I'm curious to know what time of day everyone is reading this tale at. Whenever I post a chapter, it's funny to think that people from all different corners of the world are reading it, and I am so thankful for all of their responses. Keep 'em coming, peeps! This is just going to be a quick check-in chapter, to give us a good ground to kick off of into the next set of adventures. I have an idea of how far into Anthony's life I plan to go, and even then there are more stories I want to tell. His character has sort of dug himself into my heart along with Mary and Chris, and I want to do them some credit. How do you guys like them, and where would you like to see them go?

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty<strong>

Anthony came back before Sally did, the mother needing some time alone with her son. He looked so relieved, John though, and he should have been: Chris Donovan might have died. It was a frightening reality, but a true one nonetheless, and without the help of Mycroft's special forces he might not have been safe and sound in a secret medical facility at that moment.

"How's he looking?" John asked his son as He sat down opposite him.

Anthony shrugged. He looked exhausted, but happy. "He's not saying much. I think he probably wants to go to sleep, but Ms. Donovan's chatting his ear off right now."

John let himself give a single chortle. The fifteen-year old took him through his visit with Chris, explaining Sally's reactions and Chris' embarassment. John listened gladly, himself still in a state of blissful relief. Sherlock, who had been asked by Mycroft to take a look at some unrelated case files ('_While you're here,' _he had said, forcing John to laugh out loud)_,_ re-entered the waiting room. He sat down next to John, still holding the papers. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?" he asked. John sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock was in case-mode.

"Well, I took the time off for camping, but since we're not doing that..." he glanced at Anthony, who was biting his lip in amusement, "...I suppose you want me on some ungodly adventure with you."

"Excellent idea!" Sherlock announced, slapping John in the shoulder as he handed over the case file. John read it quickly. A London woman had been found dead in her fiance's flat, but the fiance was claiming innocence, despite having been home at the time of her death.

"You don't think it's him?"

"Heavens, no. The man is an heir, John, hardly smart enough to carry out such an impressive homicide."

"It's not impressive if he did it. It's a bit obvious, really," Anthony chipped in. Sherlock looked over to the boy, as if he'd only just noticed him. His eyes widened. Then, he looked at John.

"What?" John asked, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock raised a brow, and John raised a finger. "Oh no...no, we are not!"

"Not what?" Anthony asked across from them.

"What else has he got to do? His friend is boarded up here for the next few weeks, and he needs to get some fresh air sometime!" Sherlock rationalized.

"What are you talking about?"

John exhaled loudly through his nostrils. "He's not coming."

"Who, me? You want me to come on a case with you?"

Sherlock ignored Anthony. "You'll be there, I'll be there...he'll be perfectly safe."

"He'll be here, keeping his mate company!" John hissed, and Anthony cried:

"I want to come!"

They all fell silent. Anthony looked embarrassed. "I mean, Chris is probably going to be sleeping all day tomorrow, what with all the drugs they're feeding him. And I could help...I'm good at noticing things, sometimes. Aren't I?"

John was already inhaling, ready to deny the request, but Sherlock interrupted him: "What better way to improve a deductive eye?"

"'Sides, all I'm going to be doing if I don't go is worrying about Chris. I could use the distraction."

John frowned. "Fine. You can come. But if anything happens, you'll go straight home, do you understand me?"

Anthony smirked. "Sure thing, Dad."

They were at the flat the next day. Sherlock started off in a bad mood – he hated going to crime scenes late, because he couldn't see the the body in its exact positioning. The Inspector, as they always did, explained that they couldn't keep a corse laying around overnight, but Sherlock simply scoffed at him. John was well-aware that the only Detective Sherlock worked well with with Lestrade, and that he found all the others redundant and annoying without giving them so much as a chance. Anthony seemed a little thrown off by Sherlock's rudeness, but he had read the blog, and knew that his Godfather was very different on the case than he was in his everyday life.

Anthony remained by the window of the room, watching Sherlock with an amazed face as he went through all of the possible ways Martha Henson – that was the victim's name – might have been killed. Within three minutes and a few questions, Sherlock had a suspect, and it wasn't the fiance.

"Her lover made it into the flat through the window while Ms. Hensen was waiting for her fiance to get dressed for dinner. _He_ was in the shower, unable to hear anything but the gunshot. The question is: how did the murderer get out again?" The neighbours had all heard the shot as well, but nobody got there in time to catch the shooter. Sherlock went over to the window, gently turning Anthony to look out at it with him. "There must be something...some fingerprint, or indication..." he mumbled. Both of them leaned into the window at the same time, searching it for some clue as to the murderer's escape.

"What if he didn't climb out the window?" Anthony asked. Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "I mean...what if he just went out the door?"

"You think that he came in through the window only to leave through the door?" The Inspector asked. Sherlock held out a hand at him.

"But the other thing is," Anthony started, "How did no one see notice him going in the window?" They were on the thirtieth floor of an expensive apartment building. "He must have had an accomplice," Anthony decided. John couldn't see Sherlock's reaction from where he was standing, but he heard his next words.

"An accomplice for what?"

"To take the trolley back down the building. Just look how clean this window is, except for the one handprint on the outside. The lover was a window-washer, must have been."

Sherlock clapped his hands together, and turned to the Inspector. "Check all personnel files for any companies cleaning this building yesterday. The murderer will be a fit young woman in her early thirties with a background in hunting. Probably well-travelled."

"That still doesn't explain how he escaped!" the Inspector complained.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's like the boy says...she walked out the door."

"She?"

"Obviously."

"And nobody noticed?"

"Why would they? Who notices a window-washer? Lunch?" Sherlock added, addressing Anthony, who was flushed with pride.

"Yeah, I could eat."

They went to the nearest Chinese restaurant to eat, Sherlock only ordering a bowl of egg drop soup. He and Anthony were discussing the finer points of the case, and trying to go through all of the qualities of the murderer. John couldn't help how impressed he was with his son, but also had to admit that he was a little jealous: Anthony, in a way, had solved the case. He was sure that Sherlock knew the answers all along, and that he was only waiting for the teen to come to the right conclusions on his own, but Anthony had still come through. Anthony was no Sherlock Holmes, he didn't have the mind for what the detective did, but he was well-trained. Halfway through the meal, Anthony jumped.

"Damn, I forgot to call Christine!" he cried, pulling his mobile out of his pocket.

"Language, An. Why?" John asked, but his son was already dialing.

"Chris was supposed to call when we got back, but obviously...you know...can't. She'll be so worried."

"Why would he have to call her?"

Anthony had already pressed the mobile to his ear and was standing up. "They're together-yeah, Christine? Hey, it's An..." He walked outside of the restaurant to finish the call.

John looked at Sherlock, who was wearing a mildly surprised expression. "Always thought An liked her," John stated, but Sherlock's face fell into a nonchalent one. Why would _he_ be interested in a little young love? "You knew about the murderer already, didn't you?"

"How would I know without seeing the crime scene?"

"Please, you had it all figured out from the second you read Mycroft's report."

Sherlock's lip twitched, as if he were trying to contain a grin. "Like I said last night: to improve one's eye, they need a little practice."

"So you want a protege?"

"Are you jealous, John?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

John straightened. "'Course not. Just...didn't know you were training my kid to be the next big crime solver."

"Hardly." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, so now you don't think he could be?"

"Anyone could have figured out that case." Sherlock noted John's expression. "Don't look like that, you know what I mean. I'm surprised it ever got sent to Mycroft in the first place."

"Why did he end up with it? Didn't seem to be anywhere up his alley."

"It wasn't meant to go to him. It was meant for me."

John pursed his lips, observing Sherlock. "Why you? Is someone playing games with you again?" That was all they needed: another enemy.

"Oh no...no, don't worry about that, John." Sherlock breathed in as if he were trying to seem uneffected. "The victim...she was a friend of a friend."

"Anyone I know?"

"I think you'd remember the Woman." It was the way Sherlock said '_Woman' _that answered John's question.

"Martha Hensen...one of her old girlfriends?"

"Her most recent."

"So Irene Adler killed her?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to laugh, but didn't. "No, John. No...but she did keep an eye on her, particularly when Ms. Hensen left her for a rich man. I think she must have been quite jealous when Martha had the affair, and it wasn't with her." There was something – a glint, perhaps? - in Sherlock's eye that made John narrow his brows at him.

"Have you been in touch with her?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He coughed, as if trying to conceal the motion, but John caught it. "She'll contact me, occasionally."

"I haven't heard her text you."

"Do you really think I would have kept her text alert when you were supposed to think she was dead, John?"

"Not to mention, having a kid around half the time."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes...and that."

"She written you recently?"

"No," Sherlock answered solidly. "I would imagine she's rather heartbroken, at the moment."

John felt a little guilty. In all the fun of mocking Sherlock for his infatuation with The Woman, he hadn't thought of how losing a former lover might affect her. Perhaps it was because John had always assumed that Sherlock was the only person she ever really cared about that way, just as it seemed like she was the only person Sherlock had ever – as much as he denied it – fallen for.

"Will you see her?"

"If she appears, I suppose."

"Will she be all right?" John finally asked.

Sherlock merely shrugged. A minute later, Anthony returned to the table. "She wants to come see him. I didn't tell her about the barn," he added, fully aware that Mycroft's facility was meant to be kept secret.

"He'll be moved to a public hospital as soon as Mycroft can make those arrangements," Sherlock told him. Anthony nodded.

"Chris and Christine, then?" John asked his son, trying to change the tone from the last conversation.

"Adam calls them Chris-Squared." Anthony tried to look amused, and John had the urge to ask him whether he was jealous about the matter, but he refrained from doing so. They finished their meals in a conversation about what Anthony wanted to do with the rest of his summer, and how much the Inspector they had just worked with seemed to despise Sherlock.

The summer was a good one, without much excitement. Anthony visited Chris as often as he could throughout the weeks, and John knew that Christine often went with him. It was Mary who noticed that Christine seemed to be leaning on their son for support, and she pointed out how difficult it must have been for him to see the girl he liked with his best friend. Sherlock told Mary not to assume that Anthony was interested in her.

"Just because she's the only girl he seems to know doesn't make them soulmates," he had stated, sounding annoyed. John wondered if Sherlock was talking about Anthony and Christine at all.

John had allowed Anthony to come on a few more cases with them, but when school started back up again, he took away that priveledge. Anthony didn't seem too fazed by it: he liked being with Sherlock, but the detective was not so enjoyable at work. Also, while Anthony did take an interest in the mysteries, he never seemed overly thrilled about them. He would get more excited upon returning home, where he would sit by the television sketching moments from the day. "I guess he's not the next You," John had joked to Sherlock, who sighed, but didn't seem as disappointed as John thought he would be.

John never asked about Irene Adler again, but every now and then Sherlock would receive a text and his chest would rise as he stared at it. It always took a little too long for him to exhale, and while John had no way of being sure that he had just received a brief flirt from The Woman, he liked to think that she was keeping an eye on Sherlock, waiting for the day they'd both be ready to find each other once again.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Notes: **I have a confession to make: I started writing this chapter before the last one. I was so eager to get it out of my system, and so excited to share it with you all. There are lines and moments in this that have been in my mind for ages, and they finally have a context to live in. I hope you like it, and I hope that you're prepared for it.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-One<strong>

There were few things in the world that Sherlock Holmes couldn't deduce. He knew a man's profession from his fingernails. He knew a woman's aspirations by the scent of her perfume. He knew the cause of death even when the body could not be found. Perhaps it was because Sherlock always thought he'd be the one to die first, but as he sat next to the hospital bed, looking down at his sleeping friend, he suddenly realized that he had never deduced the simple fact that John Watson was not, as it were, immortal.

It had all started over the Christmas holidays. Anthony was out of school, and the Watsons were going to see cheesy film. Mary had insisted that Sherlock join them, and despite having absolutely no interest in going to the movies, he didn't want to pass up a rare chance to go out with the family. He had been taking too many cases up until then, London having exploded with crime over the previous months. This was his break, and he intended to enjoy it. Sadly, though, his pleasurable experience was cut short about halfway through the comedy.

John started to choke on a piece of popcorn. Sherlock laughed at him and Mary patted at his back. The kernel was dislodged, and John rolled his eyes at himself, embarrassed. Sherlock turned back to the movie screen, barely able to pay attention. Then, John started to cough again.

"After everything we've been through, I lose you to a bag of popcorn?" he joked. Someone behind them shushed him. John leaned over his knees. Sherlock noticed that he was not holding the bag of popcorn, which meant that he wasn't choking on a piece of it. "Not feeling well?" he asked, placing a hand on John's back. John didn't indicate any response.

"Dad, you okay?" Anthony whispered, leaning past Sherlock.

To the detective's horror, John stumbled out of his seat and fell to his knees on the ground. "John!" Sherlock bellowed, and someone at the back of the theatre shouted at them to be quiet. John was still fighting for oxygen. He wasn't choking on anything, but he couldn't breathe. "I'll call Mycroft." Sherlock was already dialling.

_"No,"_ John managed to hiss. He was right, as he often was. It would be no good to have the very public movie theatre overrun by Mycroft's secret agents. Sherlock dialled three numbers.

The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive, and by the time they did, Sherlock had John in the recovery position, breathing sporadically. Anthony was crouched down next to him while Mary waited at the door for someone to come save her husband. The movie was still playing, but no one in the crowd was watching the screen. As John was carried out on a gurney, a few people applauded. Sherlock couldn't hide his distaste for the Universe at that moment.

"It's high blood pressure," the doctor explained to them a few hours later. John was being held overnight for observation, and Anthony was at his bedside, keeping his father company.

"He'll be all right, though?" Mary asked.

The doctor explained all of the things in John's life he would have to edit in order to remain healthy. Sherlock managed to keep from rolling his eyes, well-aware that John – an army doctor – was perfectly capable of keeping himself healthy.

Or was he? As the weeks progressed, John stayed active and maintained a healthy diet. But it wasn't a change, because he'd always done those things before.

"Could it have been stress?" Sherlock asked one night, when they were alone at 221B.

"Probably, but what am I going to do? Cut _you_ out of my life?" It was a joke, but Sherlock knew that it was more than likely true. Going on cases was not good for the neatly fifty-year old man, and Sherlock wanted to keep his friend safe. He stopped inviting him out on weekends, yet John, somehow, still appeared. Sherlock admitted to him once that he did not think it was a good idea, and that he should take a break from mysteries for a while, but John would only scoff. It would take minutes for Sherlock to forget he was in bad health, and they would carry on as usual, saving London one crime at a time.

But then there was another event. John had been in bed at the time. Mary explained to Sherlock that she woke up to her husband spasming furiously, and that he was not responding when she tried to snap him out of it. They were at the hospital, and once again, John's doctor was explaining to them everything they were doing wrong.

"It's not just his blood pressure, is it?" Sherlock asked – demanded, even.

Doctor Saxan frowned. "We're concerned about his kidneys."

John was unconscious for a day and a half. Sherlock never left his side.

He was home again in a week.

"You could see one of Mycroft's doctors," Sherlock offered the man, who was home alone, having taken the next week off from work.

"How privileged we are to have a secret medical facility at our fingertips," John replied with a wobbly chuckle. "Thanks, but I think not. They're no better than any other doctors, they just work better hours."

John himself was back at work in full force after that, but Sherlock banned him officially from any more cases, to John's reluctant compliance.

Sherlock noticed that Anthony had started to come to the flat more often, and that he didn't talk much. Chris had been completely healed from his burst appendix for months, of course, but he was spending a great deal of time with his girlfriend. Anthony would still hustle about with Adam and Nathaniel, but the two Chrises were the friends Sherlock knew he was closest to, and they were too involved with each other to pay him the attention he needed while his father was sick. Anthony did not talk much about John's medical problems, instead obsessing over his telescope, drawing incredible pictures of what he found through the lens. It was only once that Anthony even brought up the fact that his father was ailing.

Sherlock was sitting at his desk, working on a favour for Lestrade, and Anthony was trying to capture the evening sky with pastels.

"What are you working on?" he asked Sherlock as he rubbed the line between two colours, blending them seamlessly.

"The dam outside the city..." Sherlock mumbled, and since he missed being able to talk through his cases with John, he continued, "...there's a series of tunnels beneath it that they filter out every couple of days. It's mostly caged off-"

"-I know," Anthony interrupted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "We went down there once two years ago, on a class trip."

"That's rather dangerous."

"It was an off-day," Anthony justified. "Besides, the tour guide had a key."

"Did he?"

"'Course. Chris' class went, too. I remember he was pretty scared about it, but he's always been sort of..." Anthony paused, "...hammy? I had to explain to him that they weren't about to send a bunch of schoolkids to their deaths."

"Well, somebody just sent a school_teacher _to theirs. Locked them in."

"So what's the mystery?"

Sherlock let himself grumble on about how the police assumed it was an accident, that a schoolteacher would just sneak into a dam and get locked in, but he was sure it was a homicide of some sort. "We'll have to wait and see if it happens again."

"You think it will?"

"We can only hope."

"Dad said once that you love serial killers." Anthony made a face. "I mean...I know what he meant. Not that you...like what they do, and all..." He smiled awkwardly and sighed. "He didn't explain it very well. He's sort of bumbly lately."

"Is he?" Sherlock had spoken to John recently, and he hadn't seemed too jumbled. Although, he had made the mistake of using the caffeinated coffee at night, and Sherlock noticed that the shirt underneath his jumper was inside-out... "Has he said anything about work?"

"Only that they won't let him do operations. He told Mum about it, but I couldn't hear them after he closed the door on me."

So John had secrets. "If your father does anything very unusual, Anthony, could you let me know?"

"I think he's just getting old. He's nearly fifty, you know."

"Your father is not _old._"

"You just say that 'cause you're getting up there, too." Sherlock frowned, which seemed to amuse Anthony.

Sherlock changed the subject. "You don't bring Chris around, any more. Has Sally tried to ban him from the flat once again?"

"No. He's just...busy lately." Sherlock didn't pry. The boy returned to his project for a few moments, and then bit his lip. "Uncle," he called quietly.

"Yes?"

"You think Dad'll be okay, yeah?"

"Certainly." Sherlock didn't know how else to answer.

During the following weeks, John did not seem to be improving. In fact, he seemed to be getting more confused, until eventually he had stopped going to work all together, on Mary's insistence. One afternoon, Sherlock received a call from Anthony.

"You have to come, Uncle..." He was crying.

Sherlock raced to the hospital, and when he got there he immediately found Mary and Anthony sitting in the very public waiting room. It seemed to take hours for Doctor Saxan to appear, and he was frowning. "Sir?" he addressed Sherlock, who stood with surprising swiftness. Mary also stood. "I need to speak with you alone," he told Sherlock.

"Why him?" Mary demanded.

The Doctor eyed Mary, and then turned to Sherlock. "Well...he's his, erm..._partner,_ aren't you?"

"No, they're just in love," Mary clarified. Sherlock could hear Anthony scoffing in amusement, despite the situation. "I'm his wife."

The Doctor took Mary into the hallway, Sherlock watching carefully next to Anthony. "He's alive," Anthony stated.

"Of course he is."

"Mum wouldn't be crying if he were dead."

"That's true."

"Something's wrong, though. He's not awake yet."

"Obviously."

The Detective and his Godson sat there in the waiting room, making half-hearted deductions about the conversation going on between Mary and Doctor Saxan. Finally, she returned.

"We're allowed to stay here until he's up. But it could take a while." She wiped her cheeks, which were covered in her absent-minded tears.

Sherlock asked Anthony to get her some water. The boy complied, leaving them alone. "It wasn't a kidney failure?"

"Not quite, but it could be. Soon." Mary sat down next to Sherlock, who searched his mind for some utterance of comfort. But he knew Mary, and only John's voice could truly comfort her at that moment. So, Sherlock simply sat next to her, watching her peacefully. It was their way, in times like that, to give each other their silence instead of their words. Soon, Anthony had returned with a water bottle for his mother.

"You should go home," Sherlock told the pair. "Get some sleep." Mary was about to respond, but Sherlock stopped her. "I'll call you if _anything _happens. I swear."

Anthony gave Sherlock a look, and then turned back to his mother. "Yeah, Mum. I'm pretty tired. I think you are, too." Sometimes, Sherlock couldn't help but marvel at the fifteen-year old's maturity.

John woke up periodically, the days passing in a haze as Sherlock neglected rest. Every time John would open his eyes, Sherlock raced to contact Mary, but the man was already slumbering again by the time his wife and son had arrived. Occasionally, one of them caught him awake as well, but John was never up long enough to carry on a conversation, and while he would be relatively alert during those short moments, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he understood the enormity of his situation. It was one particularly long experience with the sick man, though, that made Sherlock realize exactly how aware of his mortality John really was. It was four days after the incident.

"Hey..." he groaned, making Sherlock perk up from his seat at John's bedside.

"Hey yourself," Sherlock answered, and he reached towards the call button to get a nurse.

"Don't," John ordered him with surprising gusto. Sherlock froze.

"I'm getting them to call Mary," Sherlock explained. John shook his head lightly. "All right," Sherlock agreed, and rested back down in his chair. "You're looking rather alert this morning." It was four o'clock, and the sun wasn't up yet, but it wasn't entirely untrue.

"Sherlock, I...I collapsed."

"You remember?"

"I was supposed to be working..."

"You took time off."

"Oh...yes."

Sherlock could hardly stand seeing John this way. This wasn't his companion. This was a jumbled, confused man in bad health. Where was His John? "Usually you've gone under again by now," Sherlock said, but he was glad for it.

"I feel good."

"Good."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock found himself sounding desperate. Despite his attempts at seeming normal, he couldn't help hanging off of John's every sound.

"There's something I want you to do for me. You know, if I...can't do it myself."

"John-"

"-Please listen."

But Sherlock Holmes didn't have to listen. He knew exactly what John was about to ask. "You already know the answer."

"I know. But I...just humour me, all right?" Sherlock allowed himself a soft chuckle. "I know I'm being...dramatic...but just in case I go under again and don't..." He sighed. "If I don't come back, I was hoping you'd take care of them for me. Mary and Anthony, I mean..." John rolled his eyes. "...Obviously."

"Okay."

"Would you promise?" John's eyes were the widest they'd been in days.

"I swear I will." Sherlock smiled at his friend. "But it won't come to that."

_"I'm not so sure..." _John whispered to himself as he slipped back into his slumber, but Sherlock could hear him.

John only woke up once after that, a few afternoons later. He awakened in a fit of terror, probably from some sort of nightmare. Sherlock had dozed off himself, and his immediate reaction was to press the call button to alert the nurse of John's activity. "It's alright," Sherlock told his friend, "I'm here."

The medical team was rushing into the room. John, in a moment of intense lucidity, grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Don't go!" he hissed, but a nurse was pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock held his best friend's grasp long enough to hear his final statement.

"Sherlock," John began to admit, defying every fibre of his nature, "I'm scared."

As soon as Sherlock had been successfully dragged from of the room, he vomited.

It became official that John had fallen into a coma, and the doctors were giving them no indication of when he might come out of it. Sherlock took the news with as much stoicism as he could manage, remaining strong for Anthony and Mary. In a way, he felt as if he had to start keeping his promise, despite the fact that John was technically still alive. He buried himself in his work as much as possible - trying to ignore Lestrade's pitying looks and Sally's nosey enquiries – but he always managed to make it to the Watson house for dinner. Anthony would often go out, and Sherlock knew that Chris was being more attentive to him now that his father was absent, because he would ask about Anthony's friends. Sherlock tried to ask Anthony all of the things he thought John would, whether or not he was actually interested in the triviality of who was dating whom and which movie they were going to see. That was when Anthony made it to dinner, though. Mostly, Sherlock would go to the house to visit Mary. She'd make pleasant conversation, asking him about work and telling him about her errands, but as soon as they were done with small-talk the kitchen would overflow with silence, both aware of the other's need for wordless company. Anthony would usually return home at the end of these dinners, and he liked to sit with his Godfather in the living room while he nibbled away at leftovers, answering Sherlock's attempt at asking the Fatherly questions.

A month had passed, and Sherlock was impressed by the Watsons' incredible strength, but they had each broken down once in that time span.

For Mary, it was six days into John's lengthy slumber. Sherlock had remained at the house after watching her eat, despite having to return to a case. But for some reason, he could tell that this was the night she needed him most. She was folding laundry on the couch in the living room, and she was having a great deal of trouble matching up various pairs of socks. Sherlock was sitting across from her, telling some story about Anderson's ignorance until she took the socks she had already paired off and started throwing them around the room, trying to knock down the photos that hung on the walls. When she was finished, she flung her head into her hands and burst into tears. Calmly, Sherlock collected everything that she had tossed and placed it in the laundry basket. He finished the folding and took it upstairs. When he returned to the living room, he took a seat next to her and wrapped his arms around her small frame the way he knew that John would have, but this didn't seem to comfort her. So, he removed one arm and simply placed one hand on the small of her back. She responded to the simpler touch and leaned into him as she cried herself to sleep. Sherlock laid her body down on the couch and covered her with a warm quilt. Before leaving the house, and perhaps _not_ only because he knew that John would have done it, Sherlock kissed Mary's temple. She would never know, but perhaps in her sleep, Sherlock thought, she might have dreamt that the touch had come from John.

Anthony's breakdown was far less dramatic, but it had occurred. Anthony was at Sherlock's flat that evening, fussing with his telescope the way he often did when he needed to get his mind off of things. It was at the end of John's first month in the coma, and Anthony had been quite unchanged until then, focusing on school and spending time with friends. He was telling Sherlock an apparently hilarious story about an embarrassing moment Adam had during floor hockey in an intramural game when he suddenly fell silent.

"You're bored," he deduced, peering at Sherlock.

"Not at all."

"Don't lie." Sherlock sighed. "I mean...I appreciate it. I do. But...you don't have to pretend to be Dad." Anthony crossed his arms awkwardly, as if he needed something to do with his hands. Then, his eyes became red, and Sherlock was mortified, because he hadn't seen Anthony cry since he was a child, and he had no idea how to handle him now that he was a teenager. Anthony seemed to be able to understand Sherlock's feelings of uselessness in the situation, and he apologized. "Sorry..."

"Don't be," Sherlock told, stuck for anything else to say.

Anthony let a series of tears fall, wiping them as soon as they would form. He hung his head towards his chest, unable to make eye-contact with Sherlock. It didn't take very long for him to regain his composure and speak. "Will he be all right, Uncle?" he asked.

Sherlock winced, not because of the question, but because it still shocked him sometimes how deep Anthony's voice had become over the recent weeks. If only John was there to hear him. Anthony was becoming a man – a great man – just as Sherlock was losing one. No...he couldn't think like that. Because John was going to be fine. If only he could have said that to his Godson.

"I don't know, Anthony. I really don't."

Sherlock had grown accustomed to behaving like a rock – sturdy, unmoving. It was a difficult task, but he had made a promise, and it was one that he intended to keep. On a cool day in February, however, Sherlock found himself unable to do anything of value except retrieve his mobile from his pocket and send a single text:

_He's fifty today. -SH_

It took less than a minute to receive a response.

_Dinner? -IA_


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Notes: ** Welcome back...The Woman! Irene Adler is on her way, folks, and I hope you like her. She's exceedingly difficult to write, probably the most challenging of all the characters in this story, but rewarding. And who knows? Maybe she'll return in chapters to come...but I don't want to spoil things. For now, try to enjoy, and send me your thoughts and reviews after reading!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Two<strong>

Sherlock was the first to arrive at the restaurant, which he hadn't chosen. He had no interest in fine dining, and wasn't particularly hungry, but he had nowhere else to be. The waiter came by his table occasionally to ask if he wanted something to drink while he waited. He did, alcohol seeming like a good distraction from John's birthday, but he decided to save the craving for when his 'date' would arrive.

She came perfectly on time, dressed in a form-fitting dark green gown that went to her knees. Her hair was still blonde, as it had been the last time Sherlock saw her, but she'd let it grow long. The fronts were twisted back, allowing her face to take centre stage, her lips coated with bright red lipstick.

"You're not worried you'll be recognized?"

"Please, I haven't been at the center of a good scandal for twenty years."

"In this country."

Irene Adler smirked as she sat down opposite Sherlock, and waved the waiter over to their table. "A bottle of your second-best," she ordered, and when they were left alone, said, "Everyone always discredits the runner-up."

"Indeed."

"Long time no see," Irene stated, obviously.

"You've not done much reaching out yourself."

"Well," Irene faked a smile, "I've been busy."

"Yes," Sherlock droned. The waiter came by with the wine and asked if they were ready to order. Irene ordered a pricey fish platter, but Sherlock did not ask for anything. "I'm not hungry," he said, and Irene gave him an intense look for a moment before sighing:

"Oh, thank God. Cancel the fish, just keep the wine coming." The young waiter left, looking extremely bewildered.

"You sure you don't want anything?" Sherlock asked the Woman.

"Perhaps dessert," she flirted, and Sherlock poured the wine in silence. "You're sad," she observed.

"As are you."

"I didn't think I was so obvious."

"No, tonight you're not. I mean previously."

She had an amused look on her face. "How could you tell?"

"Any fool could have solved that case, Miss Adler. Clearly, you were indisposed."

"I was rather confounded, when it happened."

"Please, you knew exactly what happened to Martha Jensen."

Irene's amusement faded into her apparent sadness. "Well...I suppose I just wanted you to know about it, then. You can't blame me for thinking about you."

Sherlock felt mildly guilty for his jabs. Trying to remedy his cruelty, he delved into his knowledge of standard social protocol. "I'm sorry-"

"-Don't," Irene hissed, surprising him. "You're well-aware that you are at no fault for her death, nor are you a sentimental enough man to apologize for a loss you have absolutely no connection to, so do not patronize me."

Sherlock swallowed. "Quite right."

"I, on the other hand, happen to be dangerously sentimental, as you know." She had a pitying expression. "I'm sorry about John."

"There's no need for that."

"Not yet."

Sherlock felt his stomach churn, his denial of John's imminent danger still driving him. "How did you hear?"

"I like to keep an eye on you, you know that." She took a quick sip of her wine. "You know, Martha was a bigger fan of John's blog than I am. I used to be a little jealous...I thought she had a crush on you."

"So she did have an interest in men?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Irene warned, her eyes flashing with momentary anger, and then softening. "She married that man for his money, and nothing else."

"Warranting the affair."

"It's my fault," Irene admitted. "I was irrational, and I decided to...seduce her fiance. She had the affair to spite his with me, and look where it got her."

"I hardly think it's your fault she died. It was her choice in mistress that got her killed." Sherlock was being insensitive, he knew, but Martha Jensen's death had been half a year earlier, and Irene Adler wasn't the type to obsess over an old flame. Or was she?

"You know, I was crazy about that girl," she told Sherlock, her hand tightly gripping her wine glass. "I never knew I could feel that way about someone. Losing her was just...it's hard to go on, after something like that." Irene swallowed. "I hope that you're...preparing yourself, Mr. Holmes."

"Preparing myself for what?" It was a juvenile response, he knew.

Irene frowned. "You're right. You can't just _prepare _to lose someone like that."

"John and I aren't like you and Martha."

"Your relationship lacks the...perks...that ours had, but He is the love of your life, regardless."

Sherlock had never thought of his relationship with John that way. There was nothing romantic between them, obviously, but John was the only person in the world that Sherlock could admit he felt that strange emotion of love toward. Deep down, he knew that there were others, as well, but John was the closest to his heart. He was Sherlock's longest relationship that wasn't Mycroft, and he was by far the most meaningful and mutually understood one.

"You're not ready to lose him."

"Obviously."

"I fear you may have to learn to be."

Sherlock took his own first sip of the wine. He had never particularly enjoyed red wine, but the conversation made him forget that fact. "If it should come to it...if he does-" Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the word. "-what must I do? You act as though there is some proper way to react, some correct response."

"There isn't one. However, this is what you _will _do: you'll mourn. You'll sit at home, barefoot, curled up in a ball on the couch. You'll hope...you'll _pray _for him to knock on the door. You'll search for clues, begging the Universe for some inkling of hope to tell you that's it's all some elaborate ruse, that's John only pretended to die to save his family from some unknown evil, just like you did.

"Then, a few days later, you'll get up. You'll take a shower, get dressed, and go to his funeral. You'll take his wife's hand and you'll wrap an arm around his son's shoulders. And you'll lie to them. You'll tell them that everything is going to be all right, that they'll find a way to move on, and you'll protect them – just the way He would have expected you to."

"Is that the right thing to do?" Sherlock asked in a whisper.

"It's the _you _thing to do."

"He might live, you know," Sherlock allowed himself.

Irene smiled. "Yes. He has surprised us before, hasn't he?" She finished her glass of wine and poured herself another. "Ask me something...unrelated. I'm sick of being depressing."

Sherlock complied. "Martha Jensen," he started, and while Irene's fact indicated that it was hardly an un-depressing subject, she didn't stop him. "I had thought she was a bit young for you?"

"Oh yes," Irene agreed, and Sherlock caught a familiar glint in her eye. "I would never deny it. We're old now, did you know?"

"Speak for yourself."

"I am. I meant myself, your brother, John..._we _are old. You, on the other hand, are as young and vibrant as the day I first laid eyes upon you."

"You flatter me, Miss Adler."

"I mean it. Physically, of course, you've aged. _Well,_ grant you, but still older. At heart, though, you'll always remain the same naive, reckless, brilliant detective you always were. I suppose we have John to thank for that."

"Yet he got old?"

"He moved on. He got married, had a family. You always remained static."

"Don't pretend to know me so well. I _have_ grown." As he said it, Sherlock felt as though he was realizing it for the first time. "I'm a different man now. Better, because of Him."

"Him...or his son?"

"Both."

Irene grinned. "I believe you."

Sherlock swallowed, finally allowing himself to ask the question that had been on his mind all night, the one that forced him to reach out to the Woman. "Will I ever feel...whole...again?"

"No." Irene licked her lips as if she regretted the answer. "But you will be happy. The void will always be there, but eventually it'll be filled with memories of the good times, not regrets for the times you never got to have. You're going to have an amazing life, and sooner or later you'll realize just how many people you have out there who love you, and whom you'll love in return, how John taught you to."

"But none will ever be like Him."

"One already is."

"Let me guess: _You?_"

"Well played, but you know it's not. Look, Sherlock..." Irene paused, leaning forward to enhance her words. "...You will never be that boy's father. John doesn't expect you to be. But you will be_ His._ You'll always be there for him, loyal to him – his guard. You'll be for him what you are to John."

"And here I was thinking John was all of that for me."

"He was. Is, maybe. That's the wonderful thing about friendship," Irene started, smiling sweetly, "It's a reciprocal love. To John," she added, lifting her glass.

Sherlock touched his own glass against hers. "Happy birthday, old friend." _Wake up._

Irene Adler kissed Sherlock's cheek before entering her car, acting as her own driver. "Don't be a stranger!" she flirted before shutting her door, and Sherlock couldn't keep himself from scoffing. The following weeks were just as difficult as the ones before them. Sherlock checked in on John in the hospital now and then, but there was never any change in his condition. Doctor Saxan had no idea if the man was ever going to wake, and said that the chances were not in their favour. But Sherlock had to remain hopeful, and he tried to channel that hope into John's family. Mary seemed grateful for Sherlock's support, and she had started setting the table for him before he arrived at the house, having become aware that he would show up more often than not. She'd ask him little questions, both avoiding the topic of loneliness without John, but sometimes Mary would hang her head and say:

"I miss him."

"So do I," Sherlock would reply, and the two would finish their meal in silence.

Sherlock also tried to stay as involved in Anthony's life as he could, inviting him to the flat as often as possible. Anthony had become rather quiet around Sherlock, but he remained agreeable. Mainly, he would sit and sketch while Sherlock told him about his various cases, bouncing ideas off of him and making little enquiries even when he already knew the answers. One day, though, Anthony stopped working on whatever piece he was drawing and ripped the page in half. Sherlock eyed the boy, who had half a foot since John had fallen into his coma. He still looked gnerally the same: the same unruly blonde hair, the same piercing brown eyes. But he was different. His face, which had once been soft and freckled, was now smooth, and his jaw chiseled. His eyes, if possible, had become even brighter than before, the gold flecks from his mother starting to show. But there was something in them...something old. It was the John in Anthony, and what a shame that he wasn't there to see it. Sherlock half-expected Anthony to have an outburst at that moment, the way his mother had weeks earlier, but instead the teenager calmly folded the ripped pages together and set them gently down on the table. _John..._

"Uncle...you have to stop." His voice was barely audible.

"Stop what?"

"You can't just...replace him, like that."

"I'm not trying to replace him," Sherlock responded, honestly.

"I know...I didn't mean..." The teen took a deep breath. "I don't mean you. I mean me. I'm not my Dad, Uncle."

Guilt washed over Sherlock. He hadn't realized it, but he had been attempting to fill the void where John had been with the man's son, treating Anthony the way he had treated his father, and trusting him to do all the things his friend would have. But Anthony was right: he wasn't John. He was his own person, with his own skill-set and his own needs. Sherlock knew Anthony as well as - if not better than - anyone else, but he had forgotten that. He had forgotten his Godson, and that was a crime he'd never before realized he could commit.

"I know. I'm sorry."

John's coma was a double-edged sword. On one hand, the fact that he might never wake up was too terrifying for Sherlock to even consider. A lifetime of waiting, only to end with John dying in his sleep. It was the heroic end he wanted for his friend. It was a weak one. On the other hand, if John awoke, there was a high chance that his kidneys would fail immediately, and that he would die in pain. Confused and hurting. It was the question of which was worse? Would John's death be boring yet peaceful, or brave yet unnecessarily agonizing?

Sherlock hoped that it would be neither. He prayed that John would wake up, that the doctors would have fixed his body, and that he could go on to be the way he'd been before. That was the miracle they all wanted, the wish they all made on the stars at night. Sherlock forced himself to hold onto his hope, but it occasionally got to be too difficult for him.

He only broke down once, and when he did, he was with surprising company. It wasn't Mary or Anthony, Mycroft, or even Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was out on a case, standing alone under a bridge with Lestrade. Sally had just been with them, and she had pointed out a particularly unique piece of graffiti before returning to the team back at the Yard. Sherlock observed the street art, and he was suddenly reminded of his second case with John. He remembered the circus, the acrobats, and John's nameless, faceless girlfriend of the time. Then, all of a sudden, he found himself rubbing ferociously at the yellow paint, trying to erase it from the tunnel, his fingernails starting to bleed as they chipped violently. Lestrade rushed to him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's, keeping the detective from doing any more damage to himself. Sherlock's knees gave out, taking both men down to the ground. He did not cry: he was too angry to cry. His entire body was shaking with fury as Lestrade tried to calm him.

"It's not fair..." Sherlock muttered, trying to slow his own breathing.

"You're right, mate," Lestrade agreed, still holding the shuddering man. "Not a bit."

Lestrade escorted Sherlock back to 221B, and while he was still agitated, he did not refuse when the older man invited himself inside. Sherlock forced himself to sit, and kept himself from screaming when Lestrade ignorantly took a seat himself in _John's chair._

"We all miss him, you know," Lestrade said to him.

Sherlock didn't know why he responded the way he did, but he felt as though he had to get something off his chest. "You want to know what the last thing he said was, before he fell into the damn coma?" Lestrade did not indicate a yes or a no, but he straightened his posture as if to ready himself for a heavy blow. "He said he was scared. It was _him_ – not the disease – speaking. He was completely lucid, and that was all he could say. He was terrified, Lestrade." Sherlock wanted to throw something, to attack something the way he had the graffiti earlier, but he remained where he was sitting. "That's the worst thing, if he goes: if the last thing he remembers is being afraid."

_His John,_ reduced to the human inevitability of death. He couldn't meet it with fear. That wasn't right, and wasn't the way it was supposed to be. John was supposed to die brave, having lived a full life.

"It should be me, first," Sherlock finally stated, pressing his palms together.

"How d'you mean?" Lestrade asked, looking as interested as he was appalled.

"If I go first," Sherlock started, a sad smile creeping upon his face, "he's not left alone. He still has Mary, Anthony...everyone. But if he goes..." He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.

Lestrade interrupted before Sherlock had a chance to finish. "You'll have me, at least." The Inspector was leaning forward, as if he was offering himself. "I'm not so lovable as John, not quite the same, but I'm told that I'm good for a laugh. You have lots of other people, too, but I can't convince you of that, so just know this: _I'm_ here. That's one thing I can promise."

Lestrade was honest, and Sherlock was genuinely touched by the gesture. Wiping his eyes before they had a chance to melt, he broke the tension with a bad joke. "Haven't you retired yet?" Lestrade rolled his eyes, and the two men chatted the night away, taking their minds off of any sadness for as long as they could manage.

It was a month and a half before Anthony's sixteenth birthday, and Sherlock was visiting John. He went at night, when fewer nurses were on duty, and when he was sure that he was alone in John's corner of the hospital, he allowed himself to speak to the unconscious man.

"It's completely cheesy, this," he said of actions before launching into a conversation. He told John all about the previous months: how well Anthony was doing in school, how Lestrade was so sick of his drivel that he was considering retirement, how Mary was gaining popularity in selling children's quilts...it was all bittersweet, since John wasn't actually there to see any of it. When he had run out of tales to tell, Sherlock did something he'd never done before, not even with his own brother. He took John's hand in both of his, and he begged. He begged John to wake up, forcing himself to hold in his tears, and he shook the man's hand as if it would make him stir. But John didn't wake up.

"You're missing all of it," Sherlock muttered at the sleeping man before standing to leave. As he let go of John's hand behind him, he found that he couldn't walk any further than he already had, because while he had let his grasp go limp, there was something else holding onto him, clinging with surprising strength. The steady beeping that had underscored Sherlock's visit began to race, and the call signal on one of the machines was activated. Sherlock gasped when he turned around to find John Watson's eyes fully open, and a baffled whisper on his lips:

_"All of what?"_


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Notes:** Did you really think I was going to kill off my narrator? _Really? _The response I received for the last chapter has been totally overwhelming, I can't thank all of you enough. It was such a hard, tragic chapter to write and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to write myself out of the sadness. There aren't many more arcs planned for this story, and it has been completely thrilling to write. If anyone has any ideas or requests for moments you'd like to see explored, feel free to send them to me, and I'll see what I can do. It's just hard to let these characters go, and I bet that once I'm done Anthony, I'll keep writing all kinds of little one-shots within the Universe I created for it. :)

One thing I wish I could do is draw. There are so many moments in this story that I wish had artwork to go along with them. Alas, I cannot, but perhaps one day I'll be venturing through tumbler and find a drawing of Sherlock bouncing Anthony on his knee while John tends to his wounds, or images of John and An shooting together. Now that would be exciting!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Three<strong>

John lived. Of course he had lived. His kidneys did not fail, as they probably should have, and he did not fall back into his comatose state. It was a confusing way to wake, though, and John admitted that he had woken up with the same fear he had fallen under with. Sherlock had tried to hold onto his hand as the doctors and nurses raced into the room, the call button having been activated. John begged them to let his friend stay, irrational tears coating his face, and him having absolutely no clue as to what was going on. He wasn't even speaking properly yet: perhaps they'd not understood him? It took time for his thoughts to organize themselves, for him to be able to construct a real sentence. When the doctors finally left him, it was Mary and Anthony who he saw first.

Mary raced to her husband, wrapping her arms around him swiftly but gently and kissing him square on the lips. It took a second to regain his breath. She was wearing a jumper he recognized as one of his own. "How long?" he asked, simply, finally aware of what had happened to him.

"Almost three months," she answered, and John felt sick to his stomach. He looked past Mary to his son, who was in his pyjamas. Anthony approached his father carefully – fearfully? - and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"You've grown," John pointed out, realizing how obvious he sounded, but in that moment, the fifteen-year old's face looked like a child's again, and he leaned down against his father's chest.

"I knew you'd come back, Dad..." he whispered, and John held his son as tightly as he could, cautiously aware that this might be among his last chances to cling onto the teenager.

Sherlock didn't re-appear that night, leaving John alone with his family, but he did come by the hospital the next morning. John was already awake, reading a series of old newspapers Anthony had brought to him. "Hello, old friend," he greeted Sherlock, who replied:

"Good morning. Nice to see you up bright and early."

"Well, I've got lots to catch up on."

"Yes..." Sherlock launched into a story about an on-going case, in which three people had been locked under the nearby dam and left to drown. He told the story in his usual detective way, and didn't give any attention to the fact that John was out of a coma for the first time in months. John wanted to point it out, having the strong urge to either punch Sherlock in the face or snatch him up into a hug, but he let the man carry on with his denial, asking the proper questions when necessary and offering answers when asked. "You'll go down there with me, sometime?" Sherlock asked, still giving John's recent medical health no mind.

"'Course. Just let me get back up on my feet first."

"Indeed." Sherlock stood. "I'll let you get some rest."

"I've been resting for months."

Sherlock did not respond, but he placed a hand on the man's shoulder as his goodbye. It lingered there awkwardly for a moment before he let himself out.

John was allowed home the next week, on his own insistence. "I'm a bloody doctor, I can take care of myself," he told his own medical practitioner, his bad case of cabin fever affecting his mood. Home was comfortable, and John received multiple visitors over the following days. Harry even came from Ireland to spend the weekend at the Watson home, but couldn't stay any longer. She seemed thinner than when he had last seen her. Sherlock would have said it was from stress. When Harry left, she held onto her brother for longer than he'd expected, but he didn't end the embrace. He couldn't imagine what happened to him happening to her, and knew that she likely felt guilty that she herself – a former drinker – wasn't the one with the kidney problems. Lestrade visited, and so did Mrs. Hudson, whose age John was finally noticing. Molly spent a great deal of time at the house, having become accustomed t visiting Mary while John was under. The rest of his daily life was to be expected. He wasn't back at work yet, having been given a month to get back into good health. It was difficult to walk, and he had been given a cane to help him. He hated it. It felt as though he was moving backwards, returning to the weak man he was after the war. The worst part was getting up the stairs in his house. One day, when Mary was out selling quilts and couldn't help him, John took it upon himself to get up to his bedroom alone. He leaned heavily against the banister and found himself dragging his feet up each step until he finally reached the top. When he arrived there, he found Anthony standing the doorway of his own bedroom, having watched him carefully.

"Sorry..." he mumbled. "Just didn't think you'd want any help." John said nothing, but gave a wry smile to indicate that his son was right. He moved a little closer. "Want to come in?" Anthony asked, inviting John into his room. It was a funny request, and John hadn't been inside his son's room in a long time, so he didn't know why he was going in there now. Anthony led him over to the bed. John looked around.

Surprisingly little had changed since Anthony was a kid. The youthful toys had all been moved out, of course, and the childish artwork on the walls had been replaced with posters of musicians and photographs that Anthony had taken, along with a few painting – some his, some famous classics. When John looked up, he saw the same glow in the dark stars that had been there for years and the gigantic map of London Sherlock had bought for the boy's fifth birthday. John remembered bitter-sweetly the night that they applied the map to the ceiling, and how it was the same night Sherlock had revealed Mary's second pregnancy to him. Reminded of that year, John looked to the window, and sure enough, there was Anthony's primrose. It was bigger now, but not by much, and it looked as healthy as ever despite being ten-years old. '_...__just when you think they're done-for, with a little extra care, they can bounce right back...' _Sherlock had said of the flowers after reviving Anthony's.

Anthony was moving about the room, searching for something. Finally, from one of his desk drawers, he pulled out a silver key chain with a skull on it. Another one of Sherlock's gifts, but one John had never seen Anthony use. Perhaps he just had to grow into it. On the key chain, though, were three keys. John knew two of them: one was the motel key to 221B Baker Street, and the other was the bronze key to his Safe-Keeping box. The third was the mystery key, the one Sherlock had given the boy on his second birthday. It was silver, like the key chain, and John wondered if Anthony had ever figured out what it belonged to. Before he could ask, Anthony had reached under his bed for his Safe-Keeping box, and was opening it.

"I didn't know you still used that," John told the teen, who merely shrugged as he pulled out a few sheets of paper. _His special paper._

"I made some things for you, for your birthday," Anthony said, and handed the sheets to his dad. They were drawings – beautifully coloured – of all the cases John had missed while he was unconscious. "Uncle Sher told me all about his cases while you were..." he paused, swallowing, "...out, and I thought you might want to catch up."

"Thank you, An," John said gratefully. "These are incredible." They truly were: Anthony, without actually being on the cases, had created clear representations of each one. Without any narration, John could find all of the clues, and see what Sherlock must have while he whittled away mysteries to reveal the truths beneath them.

"Have you seen him lately?" Anthony asked of Sherlock.

John shook his head. "Once. Your Uncle appears to be rather busy, at the moment." He didn't catch himself until after speaking that he had referred to Sherlock as Anthony's Uncle rather than his Godfather, but the boy seemed unfazed, and he thought that the title made more sense.

"You should go to the flat," Anthony said, and he started to close up and lock his Safe-Keeping box again.

"You think so?"

Anthony looked embarrassed, as if he had said something he shouldn't have. "I just mean...I think he's sort of tentative around you right now. 'Cause he thought you were...we _all _thought you were..." John frowned, but said nothing. Anthony continued: "All I mean is...I think he's trying to give you time with us, but I know he's important to you, and..."

"You're my first priority, An," John told his son steadily.

"I know." Anthony pushed the secret box back under the bed and started fumbling with the keys. "But I...you don't have to just keep us company. We don't...you don't owe me anything, Dad, if that's what you think."

John felt his eyes watering as he realized how much his absence must have hurt his child, and how brave the teen must have been during the past three months. He wanted to sit there and listen to everything he had missed, to re-live everything Anthony and Mary went through as if he'd been there experiencing it with them. But Anthony was tentative around his father, and seemed guilty, as if he felt himself a nuisance.

"I'll go to the flat tomorrow," John decided. "Now tell me something about you...other than the fact that you're huge now, what have I missed?"

Anthony laughed for a moment, and then, to John's delight, started to open up. He talked about school, about the newspaper, and about Adam's sports success. He talked about his art teacher telling him to start thinking about applying to scholarships if he wanted to pursue art as a career, which he might want to, and how he was the head painter for all the drama departments productions. He mentioned Chris and Christine, and while John didn't ask if he was jealous of their relationship, Anthony just seemed to miss his friends, who were spending so much time with each other that he found himself spending more and more time with Nathaniel and Adam and at the flat with Sherlock.

"What, so you didn't get any girlfriends while I was gone?" John enquired, mostly as a joke, but Anthony quieted at the question.

"There is this one girl..." he mumbled, and then, again to John's excitement, he started to describe pretty red-headed girl named Tal – one of Chris' dancer friends – that had asked him to go to the school prom with her.

"Oh yeah, the others are all in their last year, aren't they?" John realized, since Anthony's friends were all a year his senior.

"Last month. Well, Adam's still taking classes from my year, and Chris is staying behind for the lap year. Nate and Christine are the only ones actually going off to Uni next year, I think."

"Won't Chris miss her?"

"I guess." John wished that he could prod Anthony about the Tal girl, but he knew that it wouldn't be appropriate. Anthony changed the subject. "You heard about the dam case, right?"

John was a little surprised at the question. "Yes. Sherlock wants me to go down there with him, I think."

"You're sure you're ready?"

"I'd like to be doing _something._"

"Be careful," Anthony warned his father, who knew that his son had gone down there on a class trip once. "It's slippery down there...and ask about the secret exit."

"What secret exit?"

"There's a door there, but it's always locked. The caretaker told us it was some special escape route. I just remembered about it...seems like it could be important, or something."

"Sherlock taught you well."

Anthony grinned. "You both did."

John called Sherlock that night, hoping to arrange a time for them to sit at the flat and catch up, but Sherlock was still behaving provisionally, and instead told John that he'd arranged for them to see the dam the very next day. John complied, a little disappointed, and met Sherlock there.

"You'll have to help me about," he told his friend, pointing to his cane. He was humiliated by the thing, and he even noticed Sherlock eyeing it sorely, but the detective put an arm on his back as they were led inside by the caretaker. They made it to the caged off area, and John subconsciously patted at the back of his trousers, making sure his revolver was still there.

"How often do you come down here?" Sherlock asked the caretaker, a grey-haired, rather scrawny man with a surprisingly gruff cockney voice.

"I have to come down every time it rinses out," he answered.

"So you found all the bodies?"

"Oh yes...dreadful, that last one. Got all caught up in the metal."

John eyed the man, and looked to Sherlock to see if he was a suspect. "Who else has a key?" John asked the caretaker, who had earlier introduced himself as Mr. Taft.

"Oh, loads of people. Mostly investors, but they don't come down here much, if at all. Easy to get a hold of, really. You just have to go through the office." The man's face fell. "You don't think I...?"

"No, you're not strong enough to drag any of the victims down here," Sherlock told him insensitively. John sighed in relief that they weren't at a crime scene with a murderer.

The caretaker took them through the tunnels until they were in the very centre. John asked about the secret door, just as Anthony had instructed him to, and noticed Sherlock giving him a shocked look. The caretaker explained the passageway, a large stone door with a rusty lock:

"Ah, yes, that...mystery, that is. It leads outside. Used to be an emergency exit, in case the dam flooded with someone inside, but the keys got stolen years ago."

"How many were there?" Sherlock asked.

"Only two at the time, the rest got lost in the river years earlier. Both gone. Probably someone just took it home by accident and never brought it back."

"Why hasn't anyone made a new key? They could hang it down here, in case it happens again," John suggested.

Sherlock scoffed. "The murderer could just confiscate it. No...the victims would have to be pre-armed with the keys, and be able to conceal them until the suspect left them alone."

"So what? We give every person in London a key?"

Sherlock looked as though he might laugh. "No, John. We find our suspect before he gets to anyone else."

By the time Sherlock was helping John out of the dam, it was evening. John invited Sherlock to come by his house, but Sherlock declined. "I think I'll go take a look around," he told John.

"Alright...I'll come with you, then."

"John..." Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'll be going through the bushes. I hardly think you'll be able to handle the terrain."

John felt tragically useless, his weakness preventing him from sticking with his friend. "Well...maybe stop by after? I can stay up and wait?"

"No, you need your rest."

"Sherlock...I'm sick of resting. I want to...I want to _do _something."

"You are doing something," Sherlock said as he dialled the number for a cab, "You're healing."

"Maybe some adventure is just what I need to do that!" John was frustrated now.

"It's not like before, John. Your weakness is not psychosomatic. It's real, and you need to give it rest. Perhaps..." Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear, "...perhaps it was unwise of me to invite you here- ah, yes? One cab to..."

John seethed as Sherlock ordered a cab for him, wishing that he could hit his friend with his cane. But the man was right: John's limping wasn't fake. It wasn't even limping, really. He just wasn't strong, and despite his annoyances, it had exerted him to walk through the dam. He felt old, and he didn't like it one bit.

But then the night improved significantly as Sherlock hung up the phone. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"Oh, so I can't stick around tonight, but you want me on some other case after a good night's sleep?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "I wasn't thinking about a case at all. I was thinking that you could stop by the flat. Mrs. Hudson's been meaning to invite you over-," he went on, a glint in his eye, "-and contrary to popular belief, I do quite enjoy having you around. It's been rather dull with you away."

The humour was not lost on John, who allowed himself to fully laugh, despite the slight pain in his abdomen when he did so. In his way, Sherlock was admitting that he was finally ready to lay claim back on John as his companion, and John was thrilled that he was warming up to him again.

"I'll be there at ten."


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Notes:** I'm so excited that some people thought I was actually going to get rid of John in the past few chapters. My idea for this fic has always been to give a true-life representation of John and Sherlock's experiences together, and life isn't always pretty or fair. Lots of things happen, but they happen far apart from each other, which is why I'm writing this story over Anthony's entire youth. I really feel like my characters have grown up, especially Anthony, and I (yes, the writer!) can't wait to see where he goes next. Honestly, this story surprises me as much as anyone else, and I feel as though the characters are leading me from chapter to chapter, telling me the story. I'm just a scribe, like John...and I love it! Keep the reviews coming: you know how much they excite me.

As for this chapter, it's going to be the shortest yet. Sorry. I just loved this little brain-child, and it didn't make sense with the next part of the story, so here it is on its own. I know I've put you all through a lot in the past few chapters, so here's a touch of fluff, just for being so darn good.

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Four<strong>

On Anthony's sixteenth birthday, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had a fight. It wasn't a passive-aggressive, avoid each other's presence sort of fight, either. It was a full-blows, fisticuffs battle between the two best friends, and it shocked everyone who was present for it...

...That was, before they realized how hilarious the reason for the fight had been.

Anthony had invited his friends over to the house to hold the party, and they had spent the morning together eating cake, lounging around in the garden and regaling their youngest friend with gifts, most of which were gags about his meeting a milestone age. Mary had planned the afternoon, though, and Anthony had allowed her to. His friends would leave and then come back that night to take Anthony out to the beach. It was going to be a perfect day.

Molly and George came, and as did Harry from Ireland. Mrs. Hudson was there, and, to John's surprise, even Mycroft showed up, Anthea in tow. Of course Sherlock was there, as well.

Before it was time to open gifts, they group mingled, and John got to hear stories from a number of people he hadn't seen since after awaking from his coma. Mycroft was asking questions about the dam case, obviously unable to get anything of value from his brother, while Anthea texted away in the corner. John suspected that she was taking notes about anything he told Mycroft.

Molly and George were enjoying marital bliss. They were in the process of trying to adopt a child, and it seemed hugely complicated but John could not have been more excited for them. "Just keep the kid away from Sherlock," he joked, but Sherlock had overheard, and John couldn't help noticing that he looked a little hurt. "He makes them too brilliant for their own good." _There. Fixed._

Harry had come to see John as much as Anthony, still worried about her brother after his brush with death. Halfway through their conversation, John realized that she had also come to announce that she and her girlfriend were finally tying the knot. John couldn't have been more thrilled for his sister.

Mrs. Hudson was as mothering as ever, and she told John that she was considering retirement from the landlady business. John scoffed. "What would the world come to?"

"What would Sherlock come to, more like," she answered. What other landlord could handle that man?

Even in the odd company, Anthony had a lovely day. John was so proud of his son. After the summer, Anthony would be entering into his final year of secondary school, and then he would be going off to University. For both him and Mary, it was hard to believe that the little boy they once knew was now a young man – and what a young man he was! Anthony was a handsome boy, a trait John insisted came from his own side, and he was intelligent. He excelled in school, and he was multi-talented. In John's mind, his son was perfect. His pride and joy.

"Happy birthday, my boy," he said as he gave Anthony his birthday present, limping over with a cane in one hand and the gift in the other. It was a small bag- surprisingly small – and Anthony grinned cheekily as he opened it.

"Car keys, Dad?" he joked, and John rolled his eyes.

"Maybe get your license first."

Anthony opened the bag, and inside he found a small box. He opened it to reveal a silver watch – the best brand – and his mouth gaped open. "Geez, Dad," Anthony marvelled. John unpackaged the watch for him and placed it on his son's wrist.

"Every man needs a good watch," he said. Anthony still looked shocked by the pricey present, but he genuinely seemed enamoured by it.

The other adults showered Anthony with gifts until finally, it was Sherlock's turn. He approached Anthony and handed him a box, brilliantly wrapped as it always was. Anthony observed the box before opening it, even giving it a gentle shake. He made a face, indicating that he was stumped by the gift, and started to open it. He opened the box, and there inside lay a Colt Single Action Army revolver.

"Uncle...is this...how did you...?" Anthony sounded just as astonished as everyone else looked. Sherlock just stood there, looking proud of himself.

John's heartbeat quickened in pace, but he tried to remain calm. "Sherlock Holmes...did you just...give my son...a gun?"

"He's sixteen, John. I was much younger when I stole my first weapon."

John looked at Mycroft, who seemed unfazed by the statement. "Isn't this illegal?" he asked the Government man.

Mycroft shrugged. "I won't say anything. I trust he knows how to use it?"

Anthony looked bewildered. "Um...yeah. Yeah, I do, but-"

"-Then it's settled. He gets a gun. Happy birthday, Anthony," Sherlock added, patting the teen on the shoulder.

That's when John exploded. He threw his cane dramatically and leaped across the patio, clutching Sherlock by the collar and dragging him onto the grass. _"DAD!" _Anthony cried, but the army doctor could not hear him. He held onto Sherlock's neck with one hand before drawing his dominant hand behind him and slamming it into the detective's cheek. Sherlock looked shocked as he regained his footing, but countered with a hit to John's stomach. They men continued this until John finally had Sherlock on the ground, wrestling for top position. All the while, Mary was yelling. If John was listening, he would have made out her begging them not to fight in the garden, and that they were ruining her flowers.

After an age of battling, John found himself sitting on top of Sherlock's back, pushing the man's face into the soil. "What the _hell _were you thinking, Sherlock?"

There the two of them were, covered in dirt and bruises, and all of a sudden Sherlock Holmes was laughing.

"What's so funny?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock turned over, pushing John off of him. "It seems you've done quite well regaining your strength, my dear Watson."

And all of a sudden, John was laughing, too. It was just like their second day together: Sherlock had made John run through the back alleys of London on a useless chase just to prove that his limping had been psychosomatic. John's weakness this time had been real, but he hadn't even noticed himself getting stronger, relying on his cane out of pure normality. John fell onto his back next to Sherlock, where the grown men were cackling hysterically like children. Eventually, they leaned up and faced the party. All eyes were wide, staring at the strange men. Anthony swallowed.

"Does this mean I don't get to keep the gun?"

John looked to Sherlock. The gift had been real, despite being more for John's benefit than Anthony's. But he was in a good mood. "Only for the shooting range," he decided. It wouldn't be too difficult to teach Anthony the rules of owning the gun, and they were in the type of company that knew how to keep a secret. Mary looked a little exasperated, but seemed to agree with him, as well.

Evening came, and Anthony's friends appeared to drag him away from the grown-up party. "We'll take good care of him, Doctor Watson!" Nathaniel assured John. If he could trust any of Anthony's friends to keep the teenagers safe, it was Nate.

"Don't stay out too late!" Mary called after the group.

The party started to dwindle after Anthony left, and eventually only John, Mary and Sherlock were left to clean up around the patio. Mary put her hands on her hips as she peered out at her garden.

"I'll fix it tomorrow, I swear," Sherlock promised her. Mary's lip twitched, but she contained her smirk.

"My boys..." she muttered as she went into the house.

When the entire patio was tidied, John picked up his cane from the ground. "Guess I won't be needing this anymore, will I?"

"Another few good blows and I would have been walking about with it," Sherlock told him. John chuckled. "I am glad to see you so well, John," Sherlock added earnestly.

"I guess I'm not as old as I look."

"Well, I wouldn't say that-"

"-Shut up."

After a brief conversation about their next steps on the London Dam case, Sherlock left for Baker Street. Before going, he addressed John once more:

"The revolver...I just though...I worry about him, you know. Thought maybe it would come in handy one day."

"I hope not," John grumbled. "But I get it. Thanks."

Sherlock went home, and John was left alone to look at the garden his wife and son had perfected over the years. Having missed his fiftieth birthday, he suddenly felt as though that very day had been it, and he took a moment to think back over his life. How lucky he was to have such a wonderful, happy, safe family.

He felt his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. At first he thought it to be a text from Sherlock, but it continued buzzing. Someone was calling him, and they weren't calling the landline. John pulled out the phone. It was Anthony.

"Is everything all right?" he demanded as soon as he answered. He could hear his son scoff on the other end.

"Yes, Dad," the boy groaned. "I just didn't want Mum to pick up." John wanted to ask why his son had called, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he just listened and waited. Finally, Anthony spoke. "I just wanted to say...thanks."

"For what?" John was bewildered.

"For making it back for my birthday."

Anthony hung up on his end, leaving John alone as he grinned. Yes, Anthony truly was growing up into a great man.


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Notes: **Anthony is sixteen! Our little boy is growing up, and that fact is not lost on his family. Here's another chapter for my brilliant readers! Please enjoy, share, and review!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Five<strong>

It was an average summer. John started working again and went out with Sherlock on weekends to take on various cases. They still hadn't figured out the London Dam case, which John knew was very frustrating to the detective. Sherlock had banned him from writing about it in his blog, asserting that the criminals behind the murders would catch on and remain a step ahead of them. Eventually, Sherlock channelled his frustration into new cases, and by the time summer was letting out, the Dam case was becoming a cold one for the Yard.

One evening, a week before school was resuming, Anthony came out to the patio to tell John and Sherlock, who were lounging there after day of solving mysteries, that he was going out.

"There's a grad party-thing happening tonight."

"But you're not a graduate this year," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, but Tal invited me."

"Who is Tal?"

"Anthony's girlfriend," John answered, and Anthony made an annoyed face at him.

"Girlfriend?"

"No," Anthony said, adamantly. "She just...she's taking me, so I'm allowed to go."

John was in an amused mood. "Anthony took her to the prom a few months ago."

"Dad!"

"First I'm hearing of it," Sherlock stated, also finding the humour in Anthony's reactions. The teenager seemed thoroughly irritated by the two mens' behaviour.

"Oh, I remember when I was young and dating," John reminisced, to his son's horror. "Don't you, Sherlock?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and he appeared genuinely confused. "Oh, never mind. How late are you planning on being out?" He asked Anthony.

The sixteen-year old shrugged. "Dunno. Nate doesn't want to stay too late, though, I'll probably just go home when he does."

John nodded his approval, ever trusting in the Thorpe family. "Is that what you're wearing?" he joked to his son. The teen huffed and left them. "They get viscous as they get older," John told Sherlock, who was grinning.

"I think you ended up with a decent one, though."

"He'll do." The two men started into a long conversation about Anthony's accomplishments, and the courses he was taking in school the next year. Then they chatted about Lestrade and his wife, and about Mrs. Hudson looking to sell the Baker Street building. They chatted for a long time, but eventually, John's mind returned to their first subject. He eyed Sherlock, who was still sipping away at a glass of brandy John had brought out for him earlier. "You know, I've never asked you about that."

"About what?"

"You...and girls."

"I'm quite certain you have."

"No," John's mind was a bit fuzzy, he himself working on a drink. "I mean, when you were a teenager. Or at University. Surely there must have been _someone._"

Sherlock shrugged. "None that I can recall."

"You can't just erase an old girlfriend, Sherlock."

"Well...I do seem to have a memory of one girl at University who was rather convinced that we were together."

"Why did she think that?"

"I suppose I never told her that we weren't..."

John smirked. "So, you were a heart breaker?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. John laughed. "See, I just can't imagine going your whole life and not having...anyone."

"How do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"Why, Irene Adler."

"I was absent for three years, John, and for a couple of long periods after that. You don't imagine things might have changed since the Woman?"

John's eyes widened a little dramatically, the drink enhancing his reactions. "What do you mean?" Sherlock took a sip of his brandy. "_Was _there?" Sherlock placed his glass down next to him and gave John an unimpressed look. "Ah," John sighed, "I guess not. Ever been kissed?"

Then, to John's surprise, Sherlock nodded. "I would imagine so. Hasn't everyone?"

"I'm not so sure about you. You don't actually remember anyone?"

"No one in particular, no. But I'm quite sure it occurred...on a few occasions, in fact." John Watson laughed. The drink in his hand was nearly empty, and since he had not consumed alcohol since his illness had begun, it was running through his veins quite speedily. "I believe you're drunk," Sherlock, who had been worried about the man drinking at all, informed him.

"I most certainly am." John downed the rest of his drink in one go. "Now, tell me about all these girls you're kissing."

"Kissed, John."

_"Kissed."_

"I can't seem to recall any of their names, but for one. Heather...something. I knew her my entire childhood."

"Ooh, first love."

Sherlock made another stone-cold face at him. "Anyway, I remember that we were twelve, and that it was rather...wet."

"And that's your only memory of snogging...anyone?"

"Yes. I suppose the others are filed away."

"Nothing memorable? Important?"

"I've never had anyone like that."

"See, that's what I don't get. Because you liked Irene Adler. I know you did."

John, in his stupor, had not recognized that he was touching upon a sore subject with Sherlock, who cleared his throat and waited a minute before speaking. "I saw the Woman a few months ago, as it were."

"Did you? When?"

"While you were...how shall I put it? Incapacitated?"

John frowned. Every now and then he would remember that he had missed out on three months of that past year. "She finally called you?"

"It was the other way around, actually."

John bit his lip. "Could I ask why?"

"It was your birthday. I found it necessary to have some sort of company that day. Someone in whom I could...confide."

"And you picked Her?"

"She came to mind. Besides, she had gone through a loss a while earlier, as you recall."

Right. Martha Jensen. "And did she...did it help?"

John and Sherlock hadn't sat down and discussed the prior man's absence since he woke up from his coma. John assumed that his friend had been strong throughout the entire ordeal, having been the one to look after Mary and Anthony. Neither of them gave him any indication that Sherlock had ever really broken down, although he had known how lonely the man must have been without him around. John knew what it felt like to think Sherlock was dead, and he imagined that it would be a similar feeling for Sherlock to think that he was dying. He hadn't expected to ever talk about it, though.

"She proved herself to be quite...encouraging." Sherlock swished his drink around in his glass. "I required her honesty."

"What do you mean, honesty?"

A pause. "She was the only person fully willing to articulate the possibility of...of you not coming back. It wasn't a secret, of course. Everyone knew that you might not, and everyone secretly thought that you wouldn't, but she was the only one I could think of able to actually state it plainly. It was what I needed to hear, at the time."

"Sherlock, I-"

"-There's no need for that. You're here now. That is all that matters."

"Right." John half-wanted to get another drink for himself, but in his health, he knew that it would be unwise. "You know, I never thanked you for what you did. Taking care of my family...it was too much for me to ask of you."

"It was a given. You needn't have even asked."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I would the same for you, you know...if...well, you get it." John scratched his forehead, annoyed by the order of his words.

"I expect you would," Sherlock was already answering, but he had an amused look on his face. "Tragically, you will never have the chance. Unless, of course, Mycroft decides to start leeching off me." He chuckled, and finished his own drink.

"Have you never wanted a family of your own?" John was at that point in his buzz where he no longer had a filter, and he allowed every question that came to mind to roll off his tongue.

Sherlock considered the enquiry. "You asked about Irene Adler, earlier," he stated. John nodded, curious as to where his friend was steering their conversation. "It might come to you as little surprise that, all those years ago, I considered her an...option."

"I'm a poor man."

"What?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused.

"Mrs. Hudson and I made a bet on that. Looks like I lost."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smirking. "I won't say a word."

"Continue, please." John waved a hand out in front of them, still over dramatic in his drunken state. Sherlock complied:

"As I was saying...for the first time, I was imagining a life of...partnership, with that Woman. Not during our case with her, though. It was afterwards, after I got her out of a spot of trouble."

"When the rest of us thought she was dead."

"Yes..." Sherlock trailed off, as if he was reminiscing. "Well, I came to the conclusion that it would be unwise, obviously."

"Why? Why unwise? She likes you...liked you...no, still likes you. I'd be pretty sure of that."

"She is not a heterosexual, John."

"No...but you're not exactly a...humansexual, so it would sort of work out between the two of you."

Sherlock rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and placed his chin in his hand. "Do go on," he insisted, and John had the slight inkling that he was patronizing him.

"Well, you could have a lovely, sexless life of her committing crimes and you pretending to solve them. She'd flirt, you'd...work, and it'd be a grand old time."

"Sounds enthralling," said Sherlock ironically.

John shrugged. "Well, I've thought about it, and I think it would be a perfect marriage."

"Now we're married, then?"

"Just think of _that _wedding!"

"I refuse to do anything of the sort." Sherlock sighed. "How did we get here, again?"

"You were telling me about all your childhood girlfriends."

"Oh, right. How unwise of me to do so."

They sat in silence for some time, looking out at the garden in the moonlight. John could hear Mary messing around inside the house, probably preparing the coffee-maker for the next day or adding recipes to old cookbooks. It made him a little sad to think that Sherlock Holmes would never have the experience of sharing his life with someone...until it dawned on him: Sherlock was spending his life with _him._

"You're like an open book when you're inebriated, did you know that?" Sherlock was already telling him.

"I thought I was always an open book, to you."

"Yes. But you should be well-aware by now that I came to the conclusion you've only just made...some time ago."

"And you're happy with that?"

"With this?" Sherlock gave a sighing chuckle as he opened his palms out around him, indicating his entire life in one gesture. "I've learned to be quite grateful for what I have, John."

"But you don't want a wife? A child?"

Then Sherlock really did laugh. He went on doing so for some time, despite the fact that John had not joined him. "Oh, well, those..." he cleared his throat. "As for a wife, you know my feelings on the matter. I'm glad to see you so fond of yours, and you know that I adore her as well-" John grinned: Sherlock rarely expressed his love for Mary, though it was clear to see. "-but I shall never take one. And, as for the child...well, I think I'd be hard-pressed to create one so acceptable as yours."

"Oh, so he's just _acceptable_, now, is he?"

"Forgive me. I should say: _exceptional._"

"I tend to agree with you," Mary had come out onto the patio, and she immediately took a seat on John's lap. "Nice to hear you speaking so well of me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked a little embarrassed, but said, "I would expect the same from you of me." He then spasmed, as if realizing something he'd just said. "Oh the topic of Anthony...I'm not saying, of course, that...I am well-aware that I'm not his...I would take any credit for him being-"

"-You should," John and Mary said in unison. Mary continued for both of them. "He wouldn't be him without you, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock looked pensive. "I just hope I've helped prepare him in some way for...well, you both already covered so much, there wasn't much else I could teach him."

"You don't realize how much you've done for him, Sherlock Holmes," Mary said, and before she could continue, she was interrupted by the phone ringing inside the house. Excusing herself, she went inside to answer it.

John peered at Sherlock, a man who he had never seen look so content before. "What you said before," John started, a glint in his eye, "Does that make me your wife?"

Sherlock let himself look amused by the thought, but as he took in a breath to deliver his retort, they each heard Mary yell from inside the house. Never before had John become so sober so instantly. He leaped out of his seat and both men raced into the house. Mary had the phone pressed to her ear, and she didn't look scared: she looked angry.

"You're telling me you _don't know where he is?_" she was reprimanding someone on the other line. Eventually, she dropped the phone from her ear and handed it to John.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Chris' voice came through. _"Mr. Watson, I...we were all on the waterside, and then he...Anthony went somewhere. He's alone, and I found his mobile, and..." _the teenager's voice dropped, and when he finished his sentence, John wanted to crush the phone in his fist:_"...he's sort of...drunk."_


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Notes: **Like I said, our little boy is growing up. Thanks for all the reviews, as always, and keep them coming!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Six<strong>

It was stupid. Anthony knew that he had been stupid. Stupid to take that first sip, and stupid to keep on drinking despite how awful it tasted. He didn't know why he had done it...all he really knew as he walked alone down the streets of London was how dumb he was to leave his mobile at the bonfire.

It was all Chris' fault. Well, in the end, it was Chris' fault. His fault for making Anthony feel like some sort of third wheel between him and Christine, or like he was being babysat by the couple. He wasn't some kid they were forced to look after – he was supposed to be their mate. It had started when Nate left the beach.

"Hey, An: I'm gonna head home early. You coming?" It really was early, but Nate wasn't much of a drinker, and since that was what most of the party's attendees were already doing, he didn't harbour a lot of interest in hanging about. But Anthony was sitting with his friends, and Tal _had _asked him to come, so he decided to stay. "You sure your dad won't mind?" Nate had asked before going.

"What does he have to do with it? I can look after myself."

Chris supported him, holding Christine tightly around the waist. "S'alright, Nate. We'll take good care of him." Anthony was a little insulted by the idea of him needing to be _'looked after'_, but he let that one slide. It wasn't until later that Chris was _really _starting to piss him off.

It was like Chris and Christine had forgotten he was there. Tal was off dancing somewhere, and while she was rather cute, Anthony didn't have anything drawing him to find her. So, he sat with his friends on the picnic table, chatting. It was Adam who showed up to the party – late and drunk - and started offering everyone beers. He handed one to Anthony. "Never seen you drink one of those," he said as he did it. Anthony didn't feel pressured – at least, not by Adam. But it was something he'd always wanted to try, and why not there, in good company?

"An, you know you don't have to, right?" Christine asked him as he battled with the bottle cap. Ever the mother of the group, she was.

"Please, like I've never had a drink before," he lied, and took that first sip. It was gross, but he kept himself from making a face. Chris gave him a look: he was, of course, well-aware that Anthony had never had a drink in his life, but he generously didn't announce that fact to the rest of the group.

Anthony kept drinking. It wasn't until he stood up to get another bottle that his head felt light, and he felt as though he had to keep his focus on placing one foot in front of the other. But it was a nice feeling. Calm. He got the second bottle.

It wasn't long before the conversation had ended, and Chris and Christine were...involved...with one another. Adam was long gone, no doubt trying to collect some dodgy girl. It was then that Anthony started to feel lonely, and soon after that, he felt angry. Chris was ignoring him. Chris, who had assured Nate that he'd look after him – not that he needed looking after. He was sixteen-years old, for goodness sake. That was more than old enough to handle himself at a party. But Chris had been distant for ages. Ever since he started going out with Christine, he was too caught up with thoughts of her to pay Anthony any mind. The worst was when his Dad was sick. It was like he didn't know how to even make an effort to be there for his friend. Chris must have known how worried Anthony was for his father, but all he ever did was insist that things were going to be okay.

"I'm sure he'll get better," Chris would say, but Anthony, at the time, didn't believe that. It wasn't okay. His Dad was going to die, and he...he didn't know what he would do if that happened.

He needed a friend. Not his Mum, not his Uncle...a friend. Chris was that friend, that one person he could trust with anything. Chris was the only person who knew about Los Angeles, who knew about Mycroft's secret hospital, who knew about the surveillance and all the criminals that came too close to home...and all Chris cared about now was Christine.

Just as Anthony felt as though he would explode into anger – despite how uncalled for it would have been – there was a girl dragging him out onto the beach. She started dancing with him, and who was he to refuse. She had a drink in her hand, one which she occasionally sipped on as she moved. Anthony followed suit, and before long, but were rushing about, searching for more to drink. Anthony felt as though he could soar away at any moment, if it weren't for his pesky feet tripping all over each other.

More dancing, and eventually Anthony discovered that the girl's name was Heather. She was blonde, like Christine, and he decided to tell her all about how pretty she looked. She asked him questions, he tried to answer coherently, and eventually he was confiding in her all of his pent-up anger for his best friend.

"You're so mature for your age," she marvelled, and Anthony felt a little proud. Yeah, he was, wasn't he?

Anthony had no idea how long it had taken before he and Heather were sitting by the water, snogging awkwardly. He didn't know her last name, or if he'd ever seen her at school: he only knew that they were kissing, and then Tal was yelling, and then he really wanted another drink.

"You feeling all right?" Suddenly, Chris was with him, his hands clutching onto Anthony's shoulders.

"I can't stand up just fine," Anthony assured him, but for some reason he couldn't get the words out unslurred.

"Let's get you home."

"I don't want to go home!" Anthony was still reaching for his – how many beers had he consumed so far? "'Sides, don't want Dad to know I'm being drinking tonight."

Chris frowned. "Look, mate, why don't you come over to my house for the night? We can call your Dad and tell him you're sleeping over."

"Sherlock will know. He knows..._everything._ I'll just walk it off," Anthony decided. "See?" he said as he walked away. "I can do this all right."

Chris chased after him. "Come to my house. My Mum's at work, she won't even see you 'till tomorrow. Just...let's go, okay?"

"Where's Christine?"

"She went home already."

"You didn't want to go with her?"

Another frown. "That's not really any of your business..."

"_You're _not really any of _my business!_"

And then Chris was laughing, and Anthony was fuming. "You should maybe lay off the alcohol from now on, Mate. You're not the best I've seen at holding your liquor."

"Oh, like you bloody care!"

"An!"

"Just leave me alone...like usual...you..." Anthony couldn't find a word strong enough to describe what he was feeling about Chris, so he threw his phone at him. It missed, landing in a pit of sand behind the dark-skinned boy. Chris immediately went to retrieve it, and when his back was turned, Anthony raced away from the bonfire, away from the beach, and towards the streets.

He knew where he was...for a while, anyway. Eventually, the streets started to all look alike, and Anthony was finding it harder and harder to stay upright. That was when the guilt set in, and he started to realize how stupid getting drunk was as a decision.

Even in his stupor, Anthony had been well-trained by his family to look out for danger, and he knew when someone was following him. He quickened his pace when he saw the lights of the car shining upon him, but he couldn't run. He was too out of breath, and when he stopped to catch it, the car pulled up next to him. It was a car Anthony recognized: his Dad's.

Only Dad wasn't driving.

"Get in," Sherlock ordered briskly, and Anthony's feet were sore, so he complied.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, not bothering to put on a seat belt.

"You're walking to Baker Street." His Uncle looked unimpressed.

It seemed that Anthony's reflexes had kept him safe.

Sherlock was quiet, but looked over occasionally to peer at the boy. Worry spread throughout Anthony's veins. "You can't tell my Dad." Sherlock laughed. At him? "He already knows, doesn't he?"

"You think he would have just let me take his car?" Sherlock shook his head. "The Donovan boy called the house. He was quite concerned about you."

"Bullocks."

"Language, Anthony."

"Oh, sod off! You're not my Dad! No matter how much you wanted to be..."

Days later, it occurred to Anthony that he didn't know why Sherlock hadn't pulled the car over and blown a fuse screaming at him. He would have deserved it. Instead, though, Sherlock simply sighed:

"You have made a multitude of bad decisions tonight, young man." _'Young man,' _Anthony repeated in his mind, but then he looked at his Uncle – oh wait, his Godfather – and saw the disappointment in the aging man's eyes, which were levelled solemnly on the road ahead of him.

As they pulled up in front of the house, Anthony was starting to feel a little more grounded. Perhaps it was only because he'd been sitting down for some time, but he didn't feel quite so inebriated anymore. He apologized to Sherlock. "I'm really sorry, Uncle. I know I was stupid."

"Indeed, you were." Sherlock sighed, again. "You're young, entitled to make mistakes, but you must still face up to them. Out you go," he ordered the teenager, unlocking the car doors.

There was nothing Anthony wanted less than to go inside his house and face the music, but he did. His Dad was there, muscles clenched, with a few very select words on his tongue to greet Anthony with. It seemed to take days, but finally no one was yelling at Anthony anymore.

"Can I go to bed now?" he asked, feeling like a child. His head was still scrambled, and he felt as though he might fall over.

"Yeah, you go to your room," his Dad agreed. "And you'll stay there until school starts, and then that'll be the only place you get to escape to for another month!"

"You're _grounding_ me?" It wasn't fair: he'd _never _been grounded before. As if his parents even knew how to keep him at home.

"It's for your own good," Mum was saying. Anthony looked to Sherlock, who had been silently observing the one sided battle. He had a look on his face that Anthony couldn't quite understand...like he was remembering something. Had Sherlock ever come home drunk? Did he know how Anthony felt? Obviously he knew better than Mum and Dad. As if they ever had any fun, as if they could possibly understand what he was going through.

"It's not fair!" Anthony cried. "This is stupid."

"Says the boy who decided to drink underage," his father chided.

"Oh yeah," Anthony sneered, "Like you're one to talk. Drinking with kidney problems – and you're supposed to be a doctor! You're just looking to get yourself killed for real this time!"

"Anthony William-" His mother was already scolding, but Dad stopped her.

"No, Mary..." he looked so tired. "I'm in no state to discuss this right now. I'm off to bed." He left, and Anthony couldn't help feeling guilty.

"I'll take it from here," Mum said in place of a 'Goodnight' and it didn't take long before she had finished her lecture. "Go to bed," she ordered Anthony, who complied more than willingly. As he left the room, he could hear his Uncle's voice:

"He didn't mean it...he's not in his right mind."

"I know...I don't know what got into him."

The next morning, Anthony woke to a wall of sound. Screeching? Someone was dying, that much was sure, and if it wasn't him, it was a thousand thundering cats.

He stumbled down the stairs, leaning heavily against the banister to keep from tumbling to his own tragic end. Memories of the night before played out in his head, and he tried to place words and faces as he pieced his night together. As he turned the corner into the living room, he found his parents sitting on the couch while Sherlock played on his violin.

"What are you doing?" Anthony mumbled.

"What does it look like he's doing?" Mary told him, obviously.

"What time is it?"

Sherlock – blissfully – stopped playing. "It must be half-past seven, wouldn't you imagine?" He answered, smirking.

Anthony knew their game. It was obvious – painfully obvious, really. But, with the previous night's fuzziness finally clearing, Anthony realized that he deserved to be played. "I'm...sorry. For the things I...I think I said."

The adults were quiet, each waiting for another to answer. It was Sherlock who finally broke. "Quite all right. Just don't do it again." A weight was lifted from Anthony's shoulders. No, he wouldn't do it again, the feeling in his head was more than enough reason not to. But then, Sherlock lowered his bow onto strings and started playing once more, and Anthony's eyes seered. He ran back up the stairs to see if he could numb the sound with his pillow. He could hear his parents laughing at him all the way there.


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter. Yeah, I think that Sherlock is trying to let himself understand where Anthony is coming from, as much as it hurts him to see his Godson behaving so badly. This chapter is going to launch us into the final major arc in this story. There are so many things I can't wait to write out, things that everything else has been leading up to. I hope you all like reading it as much as I love creating it!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Seven<strong>

It became quite clear to John Watson come that Christmastime that Anthony and Chris Donovan were no longer on speaking terms with one another.

It was difficult to tell, though, because Anthony had become distant. It hadn't been an immediate change: after Anthony's drunken night out, he was apologetic about the things he had said to his father, and he was actually surprisingly open with him. The month in which he was grounded was spent doing things together, whether it be playing card games or just chatting about school. When that ended, though, and Anthony was able to go out and see his friends again, he stopped confiding in John. He wasn't cruel, he was simply cold. John suspected that his son was keeping something from him, a secret of some sort. He worried that Anthony was out partying, and worried about him, but Sherlock assured John that the teenager was not dabbling in that lifestyle.

So what was it? Anthony and Chris, with Christine and Nate off to University and Adam quite involved with his sports games, had gotten over their own battle quite quickly. John and Mary even allowed the Donovan boy to visit Anthony while he was grounded, unable to turn down his sweet disposition. But then Christmas break came, and Christine came home, and John hadn't heard about Chris since.

"You two having a fight?" he asked Anthony on Boxing Day, the day on which the kids usually got together and swapped presents.

Anthony hadn't answered. He just went up to his room and closed to door coolly.

It was daunting. John felt as though he couldn't just talk to his son anymore, like he had become some nuisance in the teenager's life.

"I suppose it's because I missed out on so much," he told Sherlock one night, when the two men were discussing Anthony's behavior at the flat.

"That wasn't any fault of yours."

"Doesn't change the fact that I wasn't there. God...was he lonely, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's forehead wrinkled as he tried to recall the time of John's absense almost a year earlier. He sighed. "He didn't seem to do much other than paint. He lost himself in his art."

So, he had channelled his pain into his pieces. If only Anthony would talk to him, explain what he was feeling. As much as having to tip-toe around Anthony made John and Mary uncomfortable, both agreed that they were more worried about his relationship with Chris. Mary put it best:

"He's supposed to be distant from us, but he's also supposed to lean on his mates. And Chris is such a nice boy..."

Even Sally Donovan brought it up, once, when they were out on a case. Lestrade had called Sherlock back to the London Dam, the case having been re-opened by another homicide. Sherlock was checking to make sure if the murderer was the same, or whether it was a copy-cat crime, leaving John and Sally alone at the entrance.

"Chris hasn't shown up at your place in a while, has he?" she asked John.

He shrugged. "Haven't heard a word about him. You know anything?"

Sally frowned. She was obviously as worried about the boys' friendship as John and Mary were. It was nice to see that she cared. "Is it because of the girl?" she asked, finally.

"Christine? What about her?"

Sally didn't say anything, but after that day, John noticed that when Anthony would go out, it was to see Christine. Or, she would come to the house. Mary told John that she had caught Christine crying one day, in Anthony's room.

"Are they all right?" John asked his son of the couple, Anthony having been fairly sociable that afternoon.

"They broke up," was the only answer his son could give. He left it at that. Perhaps Anthony was angry at Chris for breaking her heart – it would have made sense. Anthony was always fond of Christine, and he wouldn't want to see her hurt. Or, perhaps Chris was avoiding him. Perhaps Anthony was trying to take Christine from him...but that wasn't Anthony. That wasn't John's son. Sherlock insisted that John was correct on that matter, that Anthony was not that type of boy.

John was just worried.

When school started up again after the Break, Anthony seemed to be burying himself in his work, spending a great deal of time working on homework. His teachers were all very impressed with his work, and Anthony was even starting to be a little more social around his parents. He visited Sherlock occasionally, but the Detective was knee-deep in his own work, as usual. Still, Anthony was doing well, and the only thing that seemed to bring him down was when Mary would ask about his friends, or more specifically, about Chris. He refused to say anything except to insist that they were _'fine' _and try to escape back into his bedroom.

Once, John caught Anthony on his way to school. He was texting someone, and John could tell that something was up. Anthony seemed nervous, or sad. As the boy opened the door to leave, John could see him reach into his pocket and pull out his little key chain from Sherlock. He rattled the keys between his fingers nonchalently and then replaced them into his pocket. John walked through the foyer, pretending not to have seen.

"You all set for school?" he asked coyly.

Anthony didn't react. "Obviously," he answered, in a way that could not have reminded John more of how Sherlock had acted when they first met.

It was weeks and weeks later, on a Friday evening, and John went straight from work to Sherlock's flat, as they had agreed, to join him in taking on a case from Mycroft. Mary was at her book club meeting, and Anthony had called to tell his father he was going to the Donovan house, which had surprised him, but also pleased him to think that the two boys were starting to become friends once again. Sherlock was in one of his moods, probably frustrated by the Dam case.

"You know, you can't solve them all," John told him.

Sherlock huffed. "I've never – _never, _John – been unable to find the murderer. Not with this much time. _Especially _when he's so eager to get caught!"

It _was _strange, John thought, that after so many murders there still weren't enough clues to solve the case. "Well, I guess you're just getting old, like me," he joked.

Sherlock frowned, and for the first time, John thought he could see that he was agreeing about his age. It was strange to think that a man who had once been so young and brilliant was tiring, but Sherlock would rally again, eventually. He always did.

Sherlock ran through the details over and over again, searching his mind frantically for answers. As the Detective fell into his Mind Palace, John went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He brought his cuppa back into the living room and couldn't keep himself from watching his friend sift intensely through his memories, his arms motioning imaginary thoughts and his lips muttering various statements made by suspects in the case. He didn't know how long it had been, and John was starting to drift off to sleep despite the fact that the sun had barely set yet. Then, Sherlock jolted out of his incredible trance.

"There's someone at the door." John hadn't noticed the knocking.

It kept going until it turned into a pounding. John raced to open it, and there, sweating, was Chris Donovan. John looked at Sherlock, half-expecting the man to be exasperated as he recalled the time years earlier when Chris had turned to Sherlock to remedy his relationship with Anthony. But Sherlock looked concerned.

"Tell me," he ordered Chris, who stumbled inside.

"There was...he didn't...we were supposed to go to my house, but he...and then he called..." His breathing was completely uneven, and John brought him to the couch.

"Deep breaths," he soothed, holding Chris around his shoulders while he tried to keep his own heart from crumbling in terrified anticipation. The teenager looked like he had been crying. When he seemed calm enough to speak, John said: "Tell us what's wrong."

"It's all my fault." Chris took one more deep breath. "He was supposed to take photos of Adam's game, but I told him to come to my house, and An needed to grab something from his room, and then he called me and...I heard people with him. He didn't say anything – I think he called so I could hear them."

"What did they say?" Sherlock asked as he stood and started to pace. John wanted to scream, to beg for answers. He wanted to yell at Sherlock for acting so calm, but all he could do was sit in his seat, frozen, and think about how he should be calling Mary.

"They said...they were talking about you. Said you wouldn't be able to help him – but you have to, Mr. Holmes!"

"I will. What happened after that."

Then Chris did start to cry, despite his trying not to. He only got four words out of his mouth. "I heard a gun."

Sherlock sprang into action. "Go home, Chris," he ordered the boy and motioned for John to follow him. John was already dialling Mary to tell her to meet them in front of the house.

"I want to help!" Chris was insisting, but the two men ignored him, leaving him in the flat as they raced out to hail a cab.

Every second that John was away from his house was another moment that Anthony could be laying there, dying. Had his son been shot? Is that was Chris heard? John secretly wished they had brought Chris with them, so he could interrogate the boy further. Perhaps Sherlock had known that was what John would do, and that it would only scare him further. Still, he wanted to know who had attacked his son. Who would have tried to hurt him?

They got to the house, and Mary hadn't arrived yet. Running to the door and opening it, John lost his breath as soon as he smelled the gunpowder. He jogged up the stairs in a haze of fear, and when he reached Anthony's closed door, he froze solidly. Sherlock was the one to turn the knob and peek inside.

"It's alright," he told him, and opened the door entirely. There had definitely been a shot fired, but there was no blood. No one had been hit.

Anthony's gun was laying in the center of the room, as if it had been tossed or dropped.

His mobile was open on his bed. So, he had intended for Chris to hear the conversation.

The window was slightly ajar, as if Anthony had considered jumping out of it. It was odd: he must have known he couldn't fit through, no matter how fully he would have opened it.

Sherlock was peering around the room, making all of John's deductions and more. "He wasn't hurt," he insisted, and then, to John's surprise, he turned his gaze upward. "What are the chances...?" he marvelled as John tried to pick out what he was seeing. Then, he found it:

The shot had been fired into the ceiling, piercing Anthony's ceiling map of London.

"Looks like Anthony inherited your talent better than we thought," Sherlock stated, sounding far too proud for the situation.

Anthony hadn't missed his target. The bullet had lodged itself into a symbol marked _'London Dam.'_


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Notes:** Alright folks, it's begun. I have been so excited for this part of the story, and the next two chapters are the ones I'm _most _excited about. So stick around! Especially for Chapter Forty...or, as I like to call it: "Girl Power!"

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Eight<strong>

John rushed across the hallway into the bathroom to vomit. He made it just in time, and while he was slung over the toilet, he could feel Sherlock behind him, holding his arms to keep him steady. He was shaking, and the world was fuzzy, but he could still tell that Sherlock had dialled a number on his mobile and was calling Mycroft.

"...Send them to the outside, where the Emergency Exit should let out. We'll meet him there." Sherlock dropped the phone and returned his attention to John, who was falling backwards.

"Oh God, what am I doing..." he was mumbling, "We have to...we have to go..."

"Lestrade's on his way, he'll beat us there."

John felt useless. Completely useless. He should have been home, should have protected his son. Multiple people were already dead, and if Anthony had been right about where he was being taken, there was a good chance that he wouldn't make it, either. Why had they come after him now?

"Who did this, Sherlock?" His throat was scratchy and sore.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. He seemed relatively unscathed by the matter, but John was too weak to call him out on it at that moment.

John's mobile started to buzz in his pocket. It was Mary. He answered. "Mary, we're going to the Dam...get to the house and _stay put,_" he ordered her, still quiet from having thrown up. She was crying on the other end.

_"Bring him home, John."_

"I will." He hung up, and stared at Sherlock, who was trying to help him stand. "We will get him, right?" Sherlock looked confident. "What do you know?"

"I think he knows something...Anthony knows what he needs to do."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Wash up," Sherlock commanded. "I'll start the car."

John rinsed his mouth out and raced after Sherlock, his heartbeat still unsteady, and they drove straight to the Dam. Lestrade was already there, and his small team had created a barricade around the area.

"We're watching the exit, like you told us," he informed them, handing each man a bulletproof vest. "Haven't seen a thing."

"Has the murderer remained in the area, do you think?"

"What would _you _say?"

Sherlock glanced around. "Can we go in?"

"You've only got a few minutes before it floods," Lestrade warned. "And he might be in there!"

"So might Anthony." Sherlock was already stalking towards the entrance of the Dam tunnels, and John was chasing after him. Lestrade was yelling after them, but it didn't matter if the murderer was there: John was the best shot in London, and-

He had forgotten his gun.

He swore under his breath.

"Don't worry," Sherlock told him. "Whoever it is, he's left now."

Lestrade had caught up with them, his own weapon in hand.

"How're we supposed to get in? We haven't got the key," he was complaining. But the gate was already unlocked.

"Do you think he got out?" John asked of Anthony, but Sherlock was silent. He led them inside, each gate having already been unlocked. It was as if someone had planned it, knowing that they would want to take a look inside. Someone was playing a game with them. John thought of Moriarty, and for a moment, he thought he might hurl again.

"John," Sherlock called to him. They were in the centre of the tunnels, where the other bodies had been found. But there was nothing there.

"Where is he?" John asked frantically. "Where's Anthony?"

Sherlock said nothing, but he ran his hands along the walls until he reached the emergency exit. He stroked the lock, observing it, and looked entirely baffled.

"Why isn't he here, Sherlock?" John knew that the detective knew something, and that he wasn't telling him. Normally John would have been merely frustrated, but this was his son they were talking about, and if he wasn't in the Dam, he could be somewhere worse. "Who _did _this?" John demanded, and he found himself yelling despite his still throbbing throat. Suddenly, a phone rang.

Sherlock's eyes dashed around the tunnel before he found the mobile. He picked it up and put it immediately onto speaker phone.

_"You really thought I'd be that obvious this time?"_ a male voice said on the other end.

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded. Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder and pointed to his watch, indicating that they didn't have much time before the place flooded.

_"Oh, come on, you're not going to ask who I am first?"_

"I already know exactly who you are."

_"Enlighten me."_

John glared at Sherlock when he recognized the voice. It was the caretaker, the one they had met ages before. Only his accent had been fake, and it seemed that he was American.

"Michael Kipp," Sherlock answered their criminal, more for John's sake than for Kipp's.

"Michael Kipp?" Lestrade was asking. "From the Ireland case?"

Sherlock didn't justify the question with a response. "Why now?" he asked, leaning into the mobile to make sure his voice was clear.

_"I was getting bored...Jim always warned me you did this. Got him all hot and bothered and then never let him have any fun."_

Jim. Moriarty.

John's heart skipped three beats as he realized exactly who Michael Kipp must be: he was the Ringleader. The Boss. He was the one who'd been nonchalantly attempting to ruin their lives for twenty years.

He created Moriarty.

He was the International criminal mastermind.

And now he had Anthony.

"Sherlock," Lestrade was trying to get their attention.

Sherlock ignored him. "So, you're saying that you're doing this out of sheer boredom?"

Michael Kipp didn't seem to care to respond. _"You must really care about him,"_ he said, and cackled. _"How did you know it would be important?"_

"Lucky guess," Sherlock responded. Lestrade was pushing them out, and John helped him drag Sherlock, despite his bewilderment. As they closed the gate behind them and joined the SWAT team, John could hear the jets inside the Dam starting.

"What is he talking about, Sherlock?" John hissed.

_"Didn't you know? Sherlock gave our little Anthony the key to the exit."_

John's eyes widened. The silver key. All along, Sherlock had known it might save Anthony's life, and he left it with the boy for his entire life. Anthony had the chance to learn everything about that key from the time he was two years old. But how had Sherlock known?

"I thought it might be handy someday, since the exit is obviously much more than it seems. I came upon the key while I was after your merry band of criminals-"

_"-Not my band, as much as they wanted to be."_

"Regardless, I gave it to the boy for safe-keeping, and nothing else." Sherlock looked John directly in the eye as he said his next words: "He means nothing to me."

_"You lie about as well as you scheme," _Kipp's voice rang evilly. _"Anyway, I've called to let you in on a little secret. You're right: the exit is an escape route, but it's much more than that. The key you stole will lead through it to a clue, something you can use to get to me...sadly, I don't think that you happen to have access to that key at the moment."_

"Why now?" Sherlock repeated.

Kipp sighed. _"Well, first we had to find your key. I hid the clue to my 'secret hideout' ever so long ago, it might be nice to revisit. Like a time capsule. I think I'll do that once he's out of the way."_

"Why not just take the key now?"

_"Oh, and stop our little game? No...he's keeping it warm for me. You'll rally, and then you'll be fun. More fun for me than you were for Jimmy, though, I hope."_

"What's to keep me from just blowing up the exit?"

_"I've heard you advertised as much more intelligent. Blow up the door, you lose the clue."_

Sherlock was seething, and John had a realization: "Anthony had his key chain today."

_"Ding, ding, ding! And some good it will do him where he is!" _The phone lit up, and all of a sudden, a video came upon it's screen. It was Anthony, sitting alone in a tiny room, clutching his key chain to his chest. John was speechless. _ "Go on,"_ Kipp sang, _"He can hear you!"_

"Anthony, tell us where you are!" were the first words out of John's mouth, but when he saw his son's gaze move to a distant corner of the room, he knew that the boy was being held at gunpoint, and that he wouldn't be able to give them any information on his whereabouts.

_"Can I say something?"_ Anthony asked his jailer off-screen. Someone answered him, and Anthony stood, still fiddling with his keys in his hands. _"I'm sorry, Uncle,"_ he said. _"You were...you were right to give me the key. I knew what it was for...I knew years ago."_

"Good boy..." John could hear Sherlock whisper, too proudly. There was nothing in that moment that anyone could be proud about.

Anthony went on: _"I knew what you were doing, and I knew you thought it would keep me safe...thank you, Uncle. I couldn't hide it from them...they knew I had it. I'm sorry."_

"It's okay, Anthony," Sherlock said powerfully. John could feel Lestrade's hand on his shoulder. "We're going to find you, I promise."

_"How?" _ Anthony started to cry, and John felt his knees give out for a second. Lestrade steadied him. _"You can't get to the clue...and I can't tell you where I am. I know where I am, Uncle, I memorized-"_ whoever Anthony was looking at while he spoke must have threatened him, because he stopped his thought immediately. _"...You'd be so proud of me, anyway..."_

"I am. I am proud."

Anthony looked moved by this, and he put his hands into his pockets, leaving the keys there. He wasn't looking at the camera, probably unaware of where it was watching him from, but he called out to John. _"Dad?"_

"I'm here." John hadn't realized before that he was sobbing.

_"Dad, I'm sorry I've been...I'm not scared, Dad." _ John held his palm over his lips. _"I'm being brave...brave, like you. You know how I knew you were going to live last year?"_

John took a deep breath. "How?"

_"I was at Baker Street alone one night...I let myself in. I have the key, you know. I was in the office with my telescope, and Sherlock came inside with Lestrade. I overheard them talking..."_ Anthony looked as though he might laugh. _"I'm sorry I broke into your flat, Uncle." _Sherlock allowed himself a choked chuckle. _"Well, he said that you told him you were scared, and that's when I knew you were going to be all right. Because those weren't your last words, Dad." Anthony grinned. "These aren't my last words."_

Then John understood how Sherlock could be so proud of his son. Kipp's voice interrupted their moment:_ "Let's move this along, shall we...I'm getting bored!"_

Anthony started yelling frantically, not knowing how much time he might have left. "_Dad – I'm going to be fine, I promise! I love you, Dad – you're going to find me, I know you are. Tell Mum...tell her, too. And Chris – tell him..." _Anthony trailed off, his eyes welling up again, and he could barely continue to speak. _"Uncle...I love you, too, okay? I'm sorry, I...I'm sorry I never told you before."_

Sherlock's eyes lit up with a flame John recognized, but he let it drop before responding. "You're going to be fine, Anthony."

_"I know-"_ Anthony started, but then the feed ended just as his lips were turning upward.

_"You have two and a half hours, and then the boy dies, and you'll never find me!" _Michael Kipp didn't hang up before adding: _"And, dear Doctor...I'd call your wife I were you...but I think she might have dropped her phone..."_

John dropped to his knees as the mobile Sherlock was holding beeped, indicating that Kipp was gone. Before anyone could say anything, he had taken out his own mobile, and was dialling Mary. "Please pick up..." he muttered. "Please..."

He heard the phone answered, and for a second he thought that Kipp had merely been messing with him. But, as he pressed the phone to his ear and heard the voice on the other end, he couldn't have felt less comforted:

_"I'm afraid I'm not the person you had intended to speak with,"_ Irene Adler's voice rang on the other end. John dropped the phone, and Sherlock bent over to retrieve it. They had a brief conversation, John both unable and unwilling to listen to Sherlock's responses to whatever she was flirting, and eventually Sherlock hung up on her after flirting back, in his way:

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." After hanging up, he crouched down to John and Lestrade. "Greg," he started, and both men were surprised that he was calling the Inspector by his first name in that moment, "You need to search London for Irish gunmen. I know that's vague, but there's a gang from there Kipp is using for his dirty work this time. It may help lead you to Mary."

"Is it the opposing gang from the Ezra Lauter case?"

Sherlock nodded. "Keep things quiet, don't let too many people get involved. Leave finding Anthony to John and I, swear you will." Lestrade nodded and left, and John wondered why he was putting so much faith in Sherlock's orders.

"What about Mary?" John asked weakly. He should have been rallying, but he felt as though he had already lost.

"She's being handled. Miss Adler has gone and gotten herself kidnapped, as well."

John wanted to smack him. "What good will that do? If they're both captured-"

"I trust that she can get them out of it."

"Dammit, Sherlock! My wife and child are out there somewhere with a man who, as we know, has murdered countless people! He's insane, and he has my family."

To John's shock, Sherlock dragged him up to his feet and held him by the sides of his face. "John, I need you _with me _now. I need you to _trust me._"

It was Sherlock's intensity that gave John a false sense of security. "Why did you give Anthony the silver key?" he finally found the strength to ask. "Did you know – think – this would happen all along?"

Sherlock let go of John's head. "I never knew it would come to this, John. I only thought it might be a mystery for him. I stole the key when I was able to defeat a large group of Moriarty's men, and when I did that, I truly believed I could keep Anthony safe. When this case started, I thought perhaps it might come in handy, but I had hoped it wouldn't..." Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose, at the beginning, it represented my protection over him. It was..."

"Sentiment," John finished for his friend. Sherlock gave a bittersweet smile, and John felt his heart drop again. "But he can't use it, and we don't have it. We can't get to the clue. It's done."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." And then Sherlock's grin widened, and John didn't feel angry: he felt encouraged. "I'm sorry that your family has been so unlucky all these years, thanks to my involvement with some dangerous ties. But you are lucky on one count: your son just so happens to be _brilliant._"


	39. Chapter 39

**Author's Notes: **Did something weird happen with the posting of the last chapter? I never received my notifications that I posted it. So, if you missed the alert for Chapter Thirty-Eight, go back and read it! Oh yeah, and don't forget to enjoy and review!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Nine<strong>

"What d'you mean, he's brilliant?" John cocked his head. "Please, let me in on this."

But Sherlock was already stalking back towards the car. "Get in, we're going back to the flat," he said, taking the driver's seat despite it being John's car. As they drove away, John could make out Sally Donovan getting into a cruiser with Lestrade, sending a pitying look their way. As they were driving to the flat, Sherlock was quiet, and John allowed him to focus, willing to let the great detective do anything he could to save his family. He did, however, ask one question:

"How did Irene Adler get Mary's phone?"

Sherlock answered swiftly. "Mary dropped it as she was captured. Miss Adler had been trailing her, and she allowed herself to be caught as well. Wherever they are, John, they're together."

Somehow, that did make John feel a bit more confident. Also, he realized that Mary would probably kill him if he went after her before Anthony, which left him with no choice but to follow Sherlock's orders.

When they got to the flat, Sherlock raced into the kitchen to his cabinet. He pulled out various coffee tins and threw them onto the table, creating a mess in the clean room. Suddenly, he froze, and placed a finger to his lips. He pulled his revolver from his pocket and pointed it towards his office. "Come out with your arms in the air," he ordered whoever was in there.

Slowly, Chris Donovan appeared in the doorway. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Chris, we told you to go home!" John scolded the teen, who let his arms drop.

"I did go home! But my Mum said she was going to the Dam, and An told me about that case, and I came back, and..." Chris' eyes started to well up, but he didn't cry. "Did he drown?"

"No," John informed him quickly, to ease his mind.

"But you don't have him?"

"He was never there."

"Oh."

"You need to go home, Chris," John told him, folding his arms.

"Why can't I help?"

"Because your mother will kill me if I let you."

Chris threw his arms out, annoyed. "That doesn't matter! I want to help – he's my best mate, and it's all my fault that he's in trouble, and I want you to tell me what I can do!"

"You can get out of our way." John felt cruel, but Chris didn't understand how he and Sherlock worked – it wasn't safe for him. Still, he was impressed the loyalty that the teen was showing, and the courage he seemed to have. It was truly commendable, especially with him and Anthony having been fighting all those past months.

"Actually, John, he could be of some use to us," Sherlock drawled from the table as he picked through tins of Anthony's artwork. John knew that Sherlock kept Anthony's gifts to him, but he didn't know it had gone quite to that extent.

Chris perked up. "What d'you need?"

"Anthony's key chain: was he wearing it to school today?"

"The one with his locker key on it? Yeah, he brings it every day."

John shook his head. "No, we mean the one with the skull. It has three keys on it."

"Yeah," said Chris adamantly. "Silver key chain. Three keys."

"And one is for his locker? That's not right..."

"No, it is."

"Is it a small, silver key?" Sherlock asked, appearing to get annoyed by the sheer amount of artwork in front of him. What was he looking for?

"_Yes._ It's for his locker, I'm sure of it. I see him use it _every day._"

"Hm..." Sherlock hummed, not indicating whether the notion was good or bad.

Chris sighed. "Would someone please tell me what's going on?"

John answered. "I'm not quite sure. It has to do with the emergency exit inside the London Dam, I think...doesn't it?" he finished, turning to Sherlock. No response.

"Of course it does," Chris was saying, and he gave a small smile.

"What is it?" John asked him.

"Oh," Chris shrugged. "It's just that...An always wanted to go back and open it sometime, see what was on the other side."

"Well, surely just the river."

"Good luck telling him that." Chris shrugged again. "I dunno, I guess he's always been like that. Doesn't like to just brush the surface...he likes to dig into things, see what's inside."

_'Anthony did not open the cupboard to see how it worked. He opened it to see what was inside!' _ John let himself smile.

Chris was still speaking. "I guess that's what makes his artwork so good, you know?"

"Indeed it does," Sherlock mumbled from the kitchen as he finally reached a piece of Anthony's special paper. He sprang up, observed the paper until he seemed happy with it, and then nodded his head for John to follow him. Chris did, too, and when they returned to the car, the dark-skinned young man hopped into the back seat. Sherlock didn't deny him, so John allowed it, as well.

"What's this?" John asked as Sherlock handed him the drawing. It was the one from Anthony's twelfth birthday, when Sherlock had been shot by Moran. The drawing was of Mary's garden, and John remembered that Mycroft had been quite amused when he saw it.

"It's Anthony's clue," Sherlock answered him.

"How so?"

"Look at the signature."

John obeyed. There, in dark black ink, was written:

**'Love, Anthony.'**

John recalled their video phone conversation with his son. '_Uncle...I love you, too, okay? I'm sorry, I...I'm sorry I never told you before.'_

John realized that his son truly was brilliant – well, not realized. That had been clear all along, but not to this extent: Anthony had planted the seed of that signature years earlier, probably unaware that he would ever need to use it. "But I don't get it...what's the clue?"

"Hey, I remember this," said Chris before Sherlock could explain it to John. The teen leaned forward, looking over John's shoulder. "Yeah, An was really proud of that one."

"What is it?" John asked him. "What's so clever about it?"

"God, it was years ago..." Chris took the precious piece of paper and started to explain the mystery to John. "You see here, it's a garden. Your garden. Only, it's not...sort of...like there-" He pointed to a spot in the grass that looked as if something had broken in it. "That's the Earth, but in pieces."

"What d'you mean, that's the Earth?"

"Well, it's not _really _Earth, it's supposed to look like paper mache. It fell out of the tree, get it? That's the joke." John stared at the page, willing himself to see what was so funny about it. Chris sighed. "It's not the Earth that's funny, it's what's still up in the tree. _He's_ in the tree-" Chris put a hand on Sherlock's arm, which didn't seem to bother the man as much as John thought it might have. "-Sherlock's in the tree! An always told that story."

John then found himself recalling when Anthony was five-years old and Mary was pregnant, and he suddenly realized why Mycroft had found the image so humorous when Anthony had given it to Sherlock at the hospital. It was Mycroft's story of when Sherlock had broken his science project as children, told in a picture, and of course Anthony had used their own garden to represent the Holmes' one.

They reached the house, and ran around the back to the garden to the Watson's tall tree. Sherlock put his foot up on the first root and grabbed a branch.

"Um, Sherlock?" John asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"What?" Sherlock could be so naive sometimes. "You heard the boy: 'Sherlock's in the tree.'"

"You're forty-nine."

He frowned. "Oh. Yes. Right." Getting down from his position, he motioned for Chris to take his place, and held his hands together to give him a base to stand on. Chris sighed, but willingly stepped into Sherlock's hands and climbed up as far as he could. Eventually, his voice rang back down at them:

"There's a key hanging here! Think that's it?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock answered. "Grab it!"

John's eyes widened. "Are you saying...Anthony hid the key for the Dam?"

Sherlock smirked. "See what I mean? Brilliant."

"But how did he know...?"

"He probably didn't know, but expected that the key was something of importance: something to keep safe, concealed. I'm not sure he ever expected to send me after it for him, though."

Chris stumbled back down the tree and held out the prize he'd found. John frowned.

"That's not it," He said, disappointed, as he eyed the bronze key in Chris' hands. Sherlock, however, didn't seem so sure.

"Chris, you've seen Anthony use his key chain, yes?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah. All the time."

"Do you know what they're all for?"

"Well, there's the silver key for his locker...and then the key to your flat...then, the last one he just got for the school's art room last year." Chris held a hand out in front of his face, as if he was touching each key as he mentioned it. The gesture reminded John greatly of Sherlock's Mind Palace.

"He just got it last year..." Sherlock repeated, and took the bronze key. "Right. John, do you happen to know where to find Anthony's Safe-Keeping Box?" It amused John that Sherlock still called it that, but he could not allow himself to laugh.

"He doesn't bring it out, much...but I'd guess it's in his room? Under his bed, last I saw of it."

Sherlock sprinted into the house, and John and Chris followed him up the stairs to Anthony's bedroom. The detective weaselled his way underneath the bed, looking around for the teenager's secret hiding place.

"What's this about a Safe-Keeping Box?" Chris was asking.

"He's never showed it to you?" Chris shook his head, and John found himself quite surprised. Sherlock squirmed out from under the bed, Box in hand. He held it out to John.

"The key will be in here. You'll have to find it."

"Why can't you open it?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't..." he started.

"He'd rather it be you." John knew his son, and he knew that he'd prefer to have Sherlock sift through anything secret he might hold in his special Safe-Keeping Box. Sherlock nodded and took the box over to Anthony's desk, concealing it with his back. John turned to Chris, finally brave enough to ask: "You said it's your fault that Anthony got caught."

Chris hung his head. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Watson. I just wanted to talk to him...we haven't in a while. If he'd just gone to Adam's game-"

"It's not your fault." John placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and then removed it once he saw Chris' reaction to the touch. He looked so guilty. "What were you two fighting about, anyway?"

"We weren't...fighting, really." Chris broke eye-contact. "He hates me."

"I doubt that."

"No, he does. And he should. I...I did something, or said something...I don't know. But it was bad, and it was..." He started shaking his head, and then something caught his eye. "No..." John followed Chris' gaze over to the windowsill, and his heart broke. Anthony's primrose was laying on its side, and it had started to turn brown. The roots had been ripped apart. The flower was dead. "He's not going to make it, is he?" Chris suddenly whispered, and before John could answer him, Sherlock was leading them out of the room yet again, a silver key in his grasp.

"You were right, then?" John asked him frantically as the three of them got back into the car. "That's the key for the Dam?"

"Yes," was all Sherlock answered. As they drove, John thought he could see his friend peering into the rear-view mirror occasionally to peer solemnly at Chris, who was silent. When they had made it to the Dam, Sherlock began to race toward the gate and open it. He started to take off his coat.

"Sherlock, it's flooded!" John screamed at him, his emotions running high.

"The proper door is close by," Sherlock rationalized. "It will be a two-minute swim, at the most."

"You're not a swimmer! You're...you're not strong enough for this anymore. You're too old!" John felt as though he was insulting his friend, but it was true. Sherlock would not be able to hold his breath long enough to open the concrete door and escape with his life intact. John searched for options. "We can find a scuba team, or an oxygen tank-"

"-No time."

"I can do it." Chris was already removing his jumper.

"No, Chris, I can't let you do that-"

_"Please!"_ Chris exploded, and for a moment, John thought he was going to lose it for good. "He's going to die if I don't," he finished, apologetically.

John was desperate, and the words were coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Can you do this? Really?"

"I can sing and dance for two hours at a time, I think I can hold my breath and swim for two minutes."

John was defeated. "Your mother is going to murder me in my sleep..." he muttered, and held out his hand to take Chris' jumper. Sherlock primed him as he prepared to go inside.

"You need to take note of everything you see in there, and if it's an object, make sure it's not too heavy to bring back. Don't forget to check the insides of the doorway, a clue might be written in the frame. If there are shells, bring them back, as well. Or bottles...someone might have hidden a note in them." Chris was nodding and repeating Sherlock's orders, memorizing the man's words like he would a script. When he was prepared, he stood in front of the door for a moment, and then, to John's surprise, Sherlock addressed him again.

"You think he hates you?"

Chris turned around. "I deserve it."

Sherlock shook his head. "He doesn't hate you."

The teen didn't respond before turning and going down the tunnel to where the water was rinsing out the insides of the Dam. He heard a deep breath, and a smooth dive.

Then, they waited, and John paced. Sherlock, however, stood perfectly still at the gate, listening profoundly for any signs of Chris coming back out again. Sherlock's seriousness, one that he hadn't had before the minutes earlier, stopped John. Sherlock was worried for Chris as he was for Anthony, but he was showing it in a different way – a steadier way, perhaps. Maybe it was because he knew that losing Chris would hurt Anthony more than any criminal mastermind could. It was a notion that John could understand: he had lost Sherlock once, and it nearly destroyed him. He wouldn't allow his son to meet the same fate as he had all those years before. He checked his watch. Two minutes were up.

He paced again. Checked again. Two-and-a-half minutes.

Another thirty-four seconds, and John pulled out his mobile-

And then he heard a splash, and Sherlock was in the tunnel, helping Chris back to the gate. The boy was panting heavily, and he immediately fell onto all fours, getting grass stains on his knee-caps. John helped him to breathe before Sherlock began to interrogate him.

"Was there anything to bring back?"

Chris shook his head.

"Any words?"

A nod. He took another breath. "It's really an exit, but you were right: it was on the frame. The clue, that's where it was."

"What did it say?"

Chris closed his eyes, remembering. "It said...'The justice that examines all offenders.'" And then he grinned.

"What is it?" John turned to Sherlock, who was also smiling.

"Shakespeare."

"So, what does it mean?"

Chris answered. "It's time. _'Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try.' _It's from As You Like It."

John's jaw dropped. "That's is?" he asked. "That's our big clue?"

"Oh yes, it is rather _big,_" Sherlock sang. John felt sick.

"Where is he?" he demanded in a whisper.

"Get in the car," Sherlock ordered, and John couldn't do anything but follow. After getting into the vehicle, Sherlock handed Chris his coat. John was surprised by his friend's tenderness for the young man, but Sherlock was different in his middle-age than he'd been before.

John sat in the back with Chris, making sure that he didn't go into shock. The water in the dam would have been absolutely freezing, and while Chris seemed fine now, it was possible that his health would decline as they drove. It also gave him a chance to sit with the boy, who looked entirely miserable. "Where are we going?" John asked Sherlock as he drove, but the detective seemed to be completely focused – John hoped at least part of that focus was on the road ahead of him.

John turned to Chris. "Is it to do with Christine?"

The teenager looked surprised. "What d'you mean? What about her?"

"I just thought...I know you two aren't together anymore. I thought maybe An was mad at you for hurting her or something. You know, since you broke it off with her, or whatever you call it these days." He didn't dare point out that he had also thought Anthony had a crush on the girl, not wanting to complicate his enquiry.

Chris raised his eyebrow at John, and for a second, he looked amused. "Christine broke up with me," he finally stated, and turned his gaze forward, looking serious once again.

As they drove, John couldn't keep himself from getting more and more nervous. Anthony was kidnapped, Mary was being held somewhere with a criminal genius (and he couldn't even bother bringing up Kipp next to Irene Adler), and yet there they were, driving the highways of London like it was a regular day. Sherlock was confident, and Chris seemed to know something that John didn't.

"I'll ask it again: where are we going, Sherlock?"

"John, you disappoint me. It's so, completely, irrationally obvious."

John sighed, and turned to Chris. "Remember, Mr. Watson: _time._"

Time. A big clue. A _big _clue.

Then even John smirked.

"What's underneath Big Ben?"


	40. Chapter 40

**Author's Notes:** Holy forty chapters, Batman!

My readers are so darn smart. You pick up on every single thing I throw at you guys, and I couldn't be more proud! You're absolutely right about what you said in your reviews...Anthony is acting rather oddly Sherlockesque, isn't he? I mean, have some faith in the boy, he is pretty impressive...but not _that _impressive. Well, I think that this chapter will make it rather clear why all of this is, as well as being the chapter I've been waiting to write since I started this story! It's not the climax - we're not there yet - but it's a scene I've been creating in my head for weeks!

Don't forget to tell me what you thought of this chapter! It's one of my favourites (and not just because I've been waiting for some girl power), so let me know your thoughts!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Forty<strong>

Mary was blindfolded. She'd been on the train, making her way back home, and just as she got off the train and onto her street, a group of men had rushed her. They bound her wrists together, covered her face and forced her into a van. Mary had tried to do what Sherlock would have - count the turns, figure out where she was going – but she didn't know London well enough, and even if she did discover her location, what good would it do her? The men had slapped her mobile from her hands, so it wasn't like she could call John and let him know.

When they reached their destination, Mary was brought into room and her arms were re-tied around a thin but sturdy pole. She leaned her back against it and whoever had brought her left without a word. She was alone and blind. She was terrified.

It wasn't long before she heard the lock on the door being fiddled with, and her captors were bringing in another victim. As they tied them up behind Mary, her cellmate grasped her hand, and she could tell it was another woman. Then, she heard a vaguely familiar voice:

"Are you _really _not going to let me see your handsome face?" Irene Adler asked her kidnapper. So, she was blindfolded, too.

"For a price," the criminal sneered. Mary could hear the touching of lips as Irene gave her captor a prize for removing her blindfold.

"No, leave it off. I'd like to watch you walk away." She whistled as whoever had brought her in left. The door closed.

"Fancy meeting you here," said Mary, a little calmer now that she wasn't alone. She didn't know Irene Adler, the two having only met briefly years earlier, but she knew that the Woman was brilliant, and that she was on her side.

"Yes, it's been some time. Things have been well?"

"Very well, thanks for asking. And yourself?" Mary was being facetious, she knew, but the whole situation was too ridiculous for her to compute without some humour.

"They'll be better once we've made our exciting and elaborate escape."

"Sh!" Mary hissed under her breath. "They'll hear you."

"There are no microphones here. Or cameras. And the walls are thick. Want to see?"

"I can't get my blindfold off."

"Tilt your head to one side."

Mary did as she was told, and moments later she felt Irene shuffling around the pole towards her and undoing her blindfold. "Did you just do that with your mouth?" Mary asked as soon as she could see out in front of her.

"I'm good with knots."

Mary laughed despite herself, and then searched the room. It was quite small, and Irene was right: there was no way anyone would know if they were planning something. Still, her own safety didn't matter at that point. "Do you know if Anthony's okay?"

Irene smirked. "I imagine he will be."

And then Mary started to cry, her stress-level finally getting the better of her. "I'm sorry, I just...I wish I could be sure."

"Well, I can't guarantee that he's all right, but I can tell you that he's been prepared for an event like this for some time."

Mary peered at the Woman. "How do you mean? He couldn't have known this would happen."

Irene leaned her head against the pole and stared into the wall opposite them. She looked as though she were reminiscing. "He's quite well-trained, your boy. Good at keeping himself out of trouble, for the most part. He's even set up some sort of..." Irene gave a light chuckle as she found the right word, "...lifeboat...for himself. Even I couldn't figure it out. I suppose that's why he kept it."

"I don't understand."

"Mary...Anthony had something he needed to hide, but not so well that dear Sherlock wouldn't be able to find it."

"But how could he do that?" Mary marvelled, thinking about her son. "I mean, he's brilliant, but he's not...he's not..."

"Sherlock," Irene finished for her. Her smile stayed on. "No, but he's lucky to have plenty of stories to draw from, and loads of ways to keep himself guarded."

"I need you to spell this out for me...please." Mary felt silly asking so many questions, but she didn't care if she sounded daft. She needed to be let in.

Irene began to explain. "Sherlock left Anthony with something, something I noticed when I visited your lovely home, Miss Mary. A key – a silver key. It's been lost for years. He really is bright: it only took one suggestion to make him question the key, and have him wonder how it should be used. It made him question his security, as well, from what I could tell."

"You've been watching him?"

"Intently."

Mary allowed herself a small smile. "We're truly privileged, having so many to look after us. You didn't have to do that for him."

"Oh, darling Mary: did you really think I could take my eyes off of Sherlock Holmes and his exciting life? No. Especially with your husband's blog always holding my interest."

"So, you told Anthony to hide the key for Sherlock? When?"

"Oh, I didn't ask your son. That would have been too obvious. I simply arranged for his school to take a little trip a while later, and lead him to the key's solution."

"What's it for?"

"The London Dam...there's a door in it, one that's supposed to lead to the surface. But instead, it leads to a clue. Criminals for ages have been trying to find the key that would give them the clue."

"That's why these people want Anthony? For his key?"

"Oh no..._they _don't need it. They know the clue, and they know where it leads. They just want to keep their secret from anyone else."

Things were slowly becoming clearer for Mary, but she still didn't understand how Anthony knew he was in trouble. She asked Irene about it.

"I expect that when he heard tales involving the Dam, he knew that something was up. He reached out to me about a year ago, when our John was in the hospital."

Mary was shocked. Anthony had been distant while her husband was in his coma, but she hardly knew he remembered Irene Adler. "He got in touch with you? How?"

"I expect that once you've reached Baker Street, locating my phone number couldn't be that difficult."

"And Sherlock didn't know?"

"Oh, no. It was our little secret." Irene looked at Mary in a way that comforted her and continued with her story. "He asked me if he was in trouble, and I knew that he might be. But we couldn't let Sherlock know."

"Why not?"

"The man behind this, his name is Michael Kipp. He's been waiting for the right time to...how shall I put it? _Dance _with Mr. Holmes. If Sherlock knew that he was after Anthony, he would have searched him out and started this battle too early. No, better to let it play out in its time, and give Anthony a chance to set up protection for himself."

"How did Anthony hide it?"

"The best way to hide anything that you intend to be found: you plant a seed. You let it fester until it grows into an idea, carving out little moments, creating references that you can return to later. I know from your garden that Anthony is exceptionally good at planting seeds, and this is no different. He wouldn't be such a good artist, if it wasn't."

"What does art have to do with it?"

"Artists are really just backwards detectives, in a way: they know how to wrap profound meaning up into trivial mundanity."

"So, you knew what he'd done?"

"Not exactly. I had him keep his _exact _means of self-preservation a secret. You never know who you can trust...or even if you can trust yourself. It wasn't the most...comfortable...time in my life, and I wasn't sure how good I'd be at keeping his hiding place safe." Irene shrugged. "Besides, he hardly knows me. Who's to say he would have let me in?"

"John trusts you, you know." Mary didn't know why she had said it. Perhaps she was convincing herself, helping herself to believe that Irene would get the two of them out of their cell. Or maybe it was because, in their short conversation, Mary already felt a bond between them. A certainty. A bond, even.

"He does, doesn't he?" Irene sang. "I feel the same for him. With the added bonus of a slight crush. I must say, I've always been a bit jealous of you."

"I thought you liked Sherlock?"

"Yes, but they're a packaged deal, aren't they?" Mary giggled - actually giggled – but stopped herself quickly, embarrassed. She still allowed herself one joke:

"Well, you can imagine my _own _jealousy when my husband's boyfriend came home."

"Mary Watson, you are _terrible._"

They grinned at one another. Mary's mind returned to Anthony. "So...you helped him protect himself? You think he did it all right?"

"Sherlock seemed confidant, last I spoke with him. We'll have to call and check-in as soon as we're out of here."

"Right..." Mary looked around the room again, an ominous feeling sinking in. "And how do you imagine we'll escape?"

"Lovely Mary, have you already forgotten my talents?"

Mary was suddenly drawn to look down at their hands. The ropes that bound them to the pole had been loosened without her noticing. She marvelled at Irene. "You're good with knots," she agreed, and stood. Irene joined her on their feet. "Do you have a mobile?" Mary asked her.

Irene shook her head. "No. We'll get one as soon as we can."

"There'll be guards just outside," Mary said obviously as she looked at the windowless door.

"My dear Watson, do _you _trust me?"

Perhaps it was because Irene called Mary what Sherlock called John in moments of uncertainty, giving her a sense of partnership, but she nodded. Irene pulled a bobby pin from her head and went to the door. She wasn't really trying to pick the lock, Mary realized: she was trying to get the guards' attention. Moments later, the door was opening, and two large men were emerging from it. Irene Adler, Mary could see, was _amazing. _She stabbed the first man up the nose with her pin, distracting him while she took the other man's gun and wrestled him to the ground, knocking him out. Irene took the original man's gun before pressing his ear in a strange way, and he, too, fainted. Collecting the other gun, Irene tossed it to Mary.

"Ever used one of these?" she asked as Mary frantically tried to catch the revolver.

"John took me to the shooting range on one of our first dates. I was dreadful at it. That was the first day he told me he l-" Mary stopped the story, recognizing that it was unnecessary.

"What a hopeless romantic," whispered Irene, deducing the end of the sentence on her own, and for a second, Mary thought she meant it. She bent over one of her victims and searched his pockets. Eventually, she pulled out a mobile, and tossed it to Mary. "Put it on speaker phone for me, would you? I do so like hearing their voices."

Mary dialled John's phone, and pressed the speaker phone button. It only took a second for John to pick up. _"Who the hell is this?"_

"Is that any way to greet two of your favourite women?" Irene answered before Mary could.

John sighed on the other end. _"Mary? Mary, are you there?"_

"I'm here, John. Don't worry. We're safe."

_"Well, I'm not sure about you...what with her and all-hey, that's my-_

_ "-Do you know where you are?" _Sherlock's voice interrupted John's.

Irene answered. "We're in the art gallery. In storage."

Mary's stared at her. "How could you know that?"

Irene shrugged. "I counted the turns." Mary rolled her eyes as Irene continued. "And where are you boys off to?"

_"The clock tower. Miss Adler-"_

"Please, call me Irene."

_"That's Irene Adler?" _Mary heard Chris' voice.

"Chris Donovan! What are you doing there?"

_"Isn't it obvious-?"_

_"-Anyway, there's something we need you to do for us. Whoever is holding you, they'll have something we need. Some sort of key or swipe card, it should be with whoever is in-charge there. I'll send Lestrade's team your way, but you have to start looking for it, and then have it brought to us-"_

_ "-Sherlock, that is my _wife, _not another one of our detective friends-"_

"We'll be just fine," Irene assured the men on the other end. Mary could still hear John complaining as Sherlock spoke into the mobile.

_"There shouldn't be too many guards where you are. The gallery is closed, and they wouldn't want to draw attention there by filling it with criminals. You can handle it?"_

"Oh, yes." Irene grinned at Mary. "I think we'll make a sumptuous team." Mary could hear John groaning. She couldn't keep herself from scoffing.

_"Mary, you keep yourself safe!" _ John had obviously retrieved the mobile from Sherlock. _"If in doubt, don't hesitate to stand behind her, okay?"_

"We'll be fine, John. We're going to get our little boy, all right?"

Sherlock took the phone back and hung up as John was answering, _"Of course we-" _and Mary put the stolen mobile in her pocket. She looked down at the gun in her hands and sighed, knowing how useless it would be to her.

"Shall we?" Irene asked, motioning an arm out ahead of them.

Mary swallowed. "Let's go get that key."

They ran down the corridor before coming to a set of doors. Irene peeked through. "It's clear, come on."

Upon entering the new space, Mary and Irene found themselves on an indoor balcony. Below them stood three agents, each staring boredly at various pieces of artwork. Irene held an arm in front of Mary, keeping her from looking over the edge and drawing attention to them. "We need to get down there," she whispered, and took Mary along the edge of the walls to a stairwell.

As they went down the stairs, Mary could hear someone bounding down behind them. She turned around, saw the agent, and whacked him over the head with her revolver. He fell to the ground, knocked out.

"Oh, I can see why he likes you," Irene said, her eyes gleaming with pride.

They reached the bottom of the stairs. "How do we get through? There's more of them than there is us."

"Ye of little faith," Irene sighed. "You have a gun, dear. I'd use it."

"I can't just shoot at someone!"

"Well, I'm afraid you don't have much choice." At that moment, Irene opened the door and pushed Mary out in front of her. Mary yelped, held her gun out in front of her and started shooting. The three men, instead of shooting back, ran away to the nearest exit. Once she was sure they were all gone, Irene placed a hand on her shoulder. "I never said you had to hit anyone."

Mary rolled her eyes as Irene led her through the gallery. Just as they were about to reach the exit, they heard a door opening behind them. Irene pulled Mary into the nearest room, a claustrophobic office with an oversized desk, and locked the door.

"No...they know we're out." Irene looked out the window of the door. Every agent was returning to the main room, each ready with their weapons. They stood there, waiting for the two women to come out and play, and occasionally one would fire a shot through the window, breaking the glass and opening them up to the world. The Woman looked absolutely terrified as she ducked behind the desk, dragging Mary down with her.

"We're going to be fine," Mary suddenly realized.

Irene stared at her in horror. "What did you say?"

"We are going to be fine, Miss Adler."

"And what makes you think that?"

Mary started to shake, but it wasn't with fear – it was with excitement. "Because...because you're brilliant like _He_ is, and I'm..." She searched her mind for the proper word. "..._ballsy!_" She started to search around the tiny room, looking for some way to escape their situation. Every time she glanced back at Irene, the Woman looked hopeful. Then, Mary saw their way out. "Follow me!" she ordered Irene and crawled over to the large vent. She took off the cage and crawled inside. "Come on!" she hissed, turning, and Irene crawled behind her.

"We are _far _too old for this," Irene complained, but she seemed amused. Mary was moving as quickly as she could, aware that the criminals could figure out their whereabouts and come after them any second. Finally, she found herself at another vent opening. She pushed the cage off of it and stumbled into a new room, this one another, but smaller gallery space. They each stood and started to look around.

"We need to find the one with the key," said Mary frantically. She started pacing.

"He'll be separate from them, alone."

"Is there a main office anywhere in this building?" Mary knew the question was a long shot, but if Irene really _was _like Sherlock, she probably knew the gallery's floor plan quite well.

Irene nodded, and started leading the way through the corridors. They reached an elevator and got in, Irene pressing the button for the next floor up.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Mary asked. Ever since Los Angeles, she was uneasy about elevators.

Irene took a deep breath, but did not answer. As the bell chimed, Irene held her revolver out in front of her, and Mary followed suit. There was no one waiting for them when the door opened, which Mary took as a good sign, and Irene led her to an office door, crouching beneath the window. "There's two in there."

"How do you know?" As far as Mary knew, Irene wasn't able to see inside the room.

Irene gave a low scoff. Right, like Sherlock. "Ready?" she asked Mary.

Mary closed her eyes, terrified, and cocked her gun the way John had taught her to almost twenty years earlier. She and Irene stood in unison, slammed the door open and pointed their guns at the man and woman inside. The criminals followed suit, and they glared at each other in stand-off.

"Give us the _bloody_ key!" Mary found herself blasting, and she could see Irene sneaking an amused glance at her from the corner of her eye.

The woman in the room started to laugh, and pulled a swipe key from underneath her shirt. "This key?" she asked flirtatiously. Irene was not amused.

"And when did you make it out of custody, Grace?"

"I had a bit of help." The woman named Grace approached Irene steadily. "Mr. Kipp was quite impressed by my playing with you. Or, should I saw, with Martha."

"_Don't_ talk about her." Irene glared. "You have no right to even say her name."

"She loved saying my name-"

"-I won't hesitate to shoot you on the spot."

Grace started laughing hysterically. "Well then, my assistant here won't hesitate to shoot this lovely little girlfriend of yours." She reached out to Mary and touched her hair. Mary slapped her hand out of the way with her gun.

"Get off me," she hissed threateningly, pointing her gun directly at Grace's forehead. In one swift motion, Grace twisted her arm and took her weapon, leaving Mary unarmed and in a lock hold. Irene shot the man in the room and backed up to point her gun at Grace. Mary could feel the bad woman's gun pressed against her temple.

"I swear, if you hurt her..." Irene started, re-cocking her gun.

Grace was still giggling as she prepared her own weapon, and then – in an explosion of sound – the Scotland Yard was invading the small office, and Mary found herself being dragged out of the room by her arm. Her thoughts were scattered as she was pulled through the crowd until she finally found herself outside in the sunset, Sally Donovan still gripping her elbow tightly.

"Are you okay, Mary?" Sally demanded, frantically checking her for injury. Mary never knew she cared so much.

She nodded. "Yes, I'm...how did you know we were here?"

"How do you think?" Oh, right: John.

"Thanks," Mary mumbled, and then turned around. "Irene, where did she-?"

"I'm here." Irene came into view.

"So, you're the famous Woman," Sally said, eyeing Irene suspiciously.

Irene didn't answer her. "The woman in the office, she has a swipe key on her, one that needs to get to Big Ben. The boys are there, they'll be needing it as soon as possible." Sally nodded, and left to take the information to Lestrade. Irene turned to Mary. "I'm sorry for...I lost my head for a moment. I hadn't expected her."

"Old friend of yours?" Mary asked.

"...Not even a little bit."

Mary frowned. "Martha...was that your...?"

Irene gave a sad smile, and Mary placed a hand on her arm. "She'll be locked up - for good this time. They'll make sure of it."

"I'm sure you're right." Irene's whole demeanour changed as she grinned. "You were unbelievable tonight, Mary Watson."

"Well, I have a lot to live up to."

"I can think of no one your John deserves more. Even I have to admit a bit of a crush on you after this particular venture."

As Mary laughed, Sally came bounding back to them. "Key's on its way, should only take a few minutes." Suddenly, her face dropped as she realized something. "When you say the boys, you mean John and Sherlock, right?" she asked Mary.

"Of course," Mary lied, not wanting to worry the other mother. But then, she'd want to know if Anthony had gone off on some dangerous case.

"Chris is there, isn't he?" Sally asked, sounding utterly defeated.

"Oh, you're Chris' mom?" Irene asked Sally politely.

Sally cocked her head. "How do _you _know my son?"

Irene looked as though she was about to answer, but then she pursed her lips. Sally looked confused, and she left the two women there, walking away while pulling out her mobile phone.

"How_ do_ you know Chris?" Mary asked Irene once she was out of hearing range.

"I don't _know _him, but I've seen him with your son," Irene answered honestly. "He seems to be quite good for him."

"They're in a fight right now."

"Are they?" Then Irene, to Mary's surprise, smiled a bit. "Well, who does that remind you of?"

"They are like our boys, I suppose," Mary responded, thinking of John and Sherlock. Then she realized what she had said. "Not to say that...that Sherlock is...yours, I mean."

Irene looked unoffended. "Not at all. In another world, perhaps he would be. I wouldn't prevent it." She returned to the subject of Anthony and Chris. "They're not quite the same as them, though."

"No. They aren't."

Irene smirked. "A mother knows, doesn't she?"

Mary gave the Woman an affirmative smile as Sally raced back towards her. "I despise that man," she hissed.

Mary tried to look ignorant. "And why is that today?"

"He has my kid! I know he does. I told Chris to stay home, but he-" Sally glared at Mary in a way that almost made her laugh. "If anything happens to him, I'll-I'll-"

"I'm sure they tried to keep him from going along," said Mary, admitting that Sally was right. "Our boys are going to be all right."

Then Sally looked guilty, realizing that Anthony was the one they should be worried about. "I'm sorry...I suppose Sherlock Holmes is good for one thing."

"And what's that?"

Sally clenched her jaw as she answered, annoyed by her own admission: "He always solves the case."

As soon as she said it, Mary heard the mobile they had stolen earlier start to ring. She looked down at the number – it wasn't John.

"Let me answer it," said Irene, holding her hand out for the device. Mary complied. "Hello?" Irene answered, all too politely. Someone on the other end was speaking for a while, but Irene did not turn the phone onto speaker. A few minutes later, she hung up without a word. Her face had turned pale. Mary's heart skipped a beat. "Something's gone wrong," Irene whispered, and she hung her head uncharacteristically. "Anthony made a mistake."


	41. Chapter 41

**Author's Notes:** Glad you all liked the last chapter! Sorry for the cliffhanger, but you know, they're what make this site so much fun! Here's a short chapter to keep the action moving as we reach our dramatic climax. Keep on enjoying and reviewing!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Forty-One<strong>

John's comfort didn't last long. As Sherlock was driving the van towards Big Ben, John kept looking at his watch. They only had about fifty minutes left to get to Anthony before Kipp had decided to end things. It was strange: there was nothing he wanted, no trade he needed. He was just playing a game.

"Doesn't that seem strange?" he asked Sherlock.

"Not for a man like him."

"I just feel like there's something else going on...why the time limit? Why not just-" John gulped, "-kill him?" The thought seemed to stir something in Sherlock, but he didn't respond. As the minutes flew past, he found himself thinking far too much. "How do we know to go to Big Ben? It could be any clock, anywhere...literally anywhere!"

"It's somewhere Anthony knew," Sherlock reminded John. "So it's in London. He knew where he was, remember?"

"So he saw the tower?"

"No," Sherlock told him. "He knew the route."

"That's ridiculous! He's not you!"

"What has he fallen asleep staring at every night since he was five-years old, John?" _The map, _John answered in his mind. "Besides, his school isn't too far from here."

"An knows this area better than anyone," Chris, who was still wet from the Dam, said to John in order to help comfort him. "I reckon he'd be able to count the turns, if he tried hard enough."

They reached the clocktower, only to be met by Lestrade. "Looking for this?" he asked, holding up a blank swipe key. Sherlock snatched at it.

"We need to go to the basement of the tower," he told him, and Lestrade led them through the building and down a rickety elevator. "There should be something...a door. Something modern," Sherlock added, as he observed the key. "Miss Adler was quite certain that this was the one I wanted?"

"Seemed to be."

Sherlock searched every door, ever corridor, and every room for somewhere to use the key, but there was nothing. "It must be...there must be _something,_" he kept mumbling, but for the life of him, he couldn't find a swipe lock. He stopped in the centre of the room. "It's wrong," he muttered. "This is...something is wrong."

John checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes. Chris noticed the nervous look on his face and started to help Sherlock look. "It's got to be the one-"

"-It's wrong, John! This isn't the right key. And look around: Anthony is not here. _No one _is here but us."

"Maybe we're just in the wrong place-"

"-It's the bloody right place! The clue was sound. This is where Kipp said he would be." Sherlock's face had turned red, and John could see his hand shaking. Suddenly, the phone they had picked up in the Dam started to ring. Sherlock answered it on speakerphone.

_"Hello?" _Irene's voice was first, but it was soon interrupted.

_"Well, hello friends." _ It was Kipp's voice.

"What do you really want?" Sherlock demanded.

_"It seems that our little boy has tried to fool me, hasn't he? Imagine my surprise when I went to take back what's rightfully mine, only to find it replaced by some useless piece of metal." _ John's heart fell: Kipp knew that Anthony had switched the keys. _"Which can only mean one thing: you boys have my clue."_

"You over-estimate the boy," Sherlock said gruffly, trying to sound unaffected. "We don't have any way to the clue."

_ "Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Holmes." _ Kipp laughed._ "You have my clue, and I'd like it back."_

"What do you need it for? I thought you already had it."

_"You knew I was playing a game. I never promised I'd play fair."_

Sherlock frowned, and John sighed. Kipp wanted the clue. "We don't know it," Sherlock lied. Chris looked like he wanted to protest, but John placed a finger over his mouth. If Kipp didn't think they knew it, then maybe he'd give them more time to decide their next move.

_"Well, then I'd suggest you find it. Bring me the clue in the next half-hour, and maybe I'll give you the boy. How's that for a deal?"_

John wanted to speak up and accept Kipp's offer right there, but Sherlock's face told him not to as he answered the criminal: "Anthony first. We need him to show us where the key to the Dam is hidden."

_"I've already asked him that. He's quite unwilling to tell me."_

"Then let me ask him."

_"No. I tire of your sentimental drivel. Get the clue, and tell me where it leads, or the boy will die." _Kipp laughed evilly.

Sherlock decided to give in. "Fine. We know your precious clue. Now give us Anthony."

_"Come and get him yourself."_

"By all means. Where can we find him?"

Then Kipp's voice dropped an octave. _"I'm sure you can figure that out on your own. You have the key to the building, after all, and I don't play easy with liars."_

"Tell me where you are!" Sherlock was yelling into the mobile as Kipp hung up on them. "Irene, if you're still there, try to find any information you can on Anthony's whereabouts!" John could hear another beep as Irene silently hung up whichever phone she was using.

"What the hell was that?" Chris demanded. "Why didn't you just tell him the clue over the phone?"

"Because then he'd just kill Anthony. We need to get to him first, and force the trade."

"Kipp won't play fair, he said it himself," John said, exhaling loudly. He eyed Sherlock, who was refusing to speak. The detective was glaring the the swipe key, as if he was waiting for it to label itself. "You can do this," John told him. "This is what you're good at."

"It's an unlabelled key, John!" Sherlock's eyes were wide and red. In that moment, he looked older than John had ever seen him. Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face and then through his hair, and for the first time John noticed it was greying. "It could go anywhere."

That was when John realized the finality of their situation. Kipp had expected them to give up at the start, and had Anthony not made his arrangements, they would have had to. But, as soon as he discovered that Anthony did not have the key he needed to get through the Dam's emergency exit, he got a better idea. He was still playing with them, putting Anthony's life on the clock. If they didn't make it in time, he would simply go after the next person in Sherlock's life, threatening him until the detective finally gave in and presented him with the clue he wanted. It was a dirty game, without motivation, and it made John feel sick.

Sherlock was still shivering, and he kept hitting his forehead with the swipe key, as though it was going to transfer some information into his mind.

"We could try tracing the call," Lestrade offered.

Sherlock scoffed. "There's no time!"

"So, what can we do?"

Sherlock inhaled as if he were about to speak, but he let the breath out, wordless. It was a gesture John had never seen from the great man: he was giving up.

"No. No! Don't you dare!" John yelled at him. "This is my _boy _we are talking about! You can do this. You _can _find him, Sherlock Holmes! This is what you do!" Sherlock looked as though he was about to cry as he stared at the blank key.

"It could be...it could be _anything._"

"No, it couldn't be. Narrow it down. Bloody _deduce!_"

Sherlock nodded weakly. He turned the key over. "We'd have to check every building in London with a swipe card system. It's...it would be a new system, judging by the scratches on the card. This would belong to owners, since it's unmarked, so that will mean it's unlikely to be a hotel room key. It's...think new buildings, or buildings with new systems recently installed." Sherlock frowned. "That's all I know. I'm sorry."

Lestrade shrugged as he finished writing it all down. "We'll get you a list as soon as we can," he told them, and ran back to the elevator.

John, Sherlock and Chris were all standing there, each feeling completely helpless. They had failed. They couldn't find Anthony with only that key as their clue. Anthony would be dead in twenty-five minutes.

Then, at the moment when all seemed lost, Chris perked up. "Let me see that," he said, holding his hand out. With all his other options lost, Sherlock complied. "New system, you said?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered quietly.

"New keys, too, right? A place An would know? A place with a system so new that they haven't had a chance to label the keys yet?"

"...Right?"

And then Chris grinned, and something inside of John came back to life. "Follow me," the boy ordered them, and started racing towards the elevator. John looked at Sherlock, who shrugged, and they chased him into it. "It's less than five minutes away-we only just switched over to the electronic system, making things more modern and the like," he was telling them.

"We? Where are we going?" John asked, marvelling at the teen's excitement.

"An goes there all the time – he designs all the sets. He knows the building, and it's right by the school, so he knows all the turns on the way there."

"Where, Chris? _Where?_"

The elevator door opened. Chris' eyes gleamed. "The student theatre!" he announced, and started running.

As John and Sherlock ran after him, Sherlock hissed through his breaths: "I'm in love with Sally Donovan."

John didn't know he could still move so quickly in his old age and continue breathing. He rolled his eyes. "Have-you gone-_mental?_ _ Why?_"

And Sherlock chuckled through his heaving breaths as he told him: "For giving birth to such a brilliant child!"

As John battled his old age with every stride, he couldn't help but agree with the detective.


	42. Chapter 42

**Author's Notes: ** Welcome to chapter forty-two. Long fic is long. I found it difficult to get inspired for this chapter, partly because we're nearing the end (and I don't want it to end!) and partly just because I didn't know if I wanted another Anthony POV chapter before the climax, but he asked for one, and who I am to deny my characters their needs? How nice it is when they take on lives of their own, and discover things about themselves I never set out for them to find...but more on that once the story is done. I think at the end of this, I'll add a whole extra chapter of Author's Notes just to run through all of your questions!

Also, today I was in the city, and I saw a Believe in Sherlock poster. I signed it, took a pic with it, and it totally gave me the thrill I needed to write up this chapter! So enjoy, and don't forget to review! Send me any and all thoughts you might have, because I eat them up!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Forty-Two<strong>

They'd always had too much faith in him.

That's what Anthony thought, anyway. He always felt like a disappointment. His Godfather was a genius, his father a hero and his mother was the only woman Anthony knew of who could handle both at once. But what did he have? He was raised by a perfect trio, a team of people who loved each other and wanted to pour some of that love into him...had he lived up to their teachings?

This was the question that Anthony pondered as he leaned against the basement wall. He knew where he was: it was the student theatre. The basement was still unfinished, and it was unheated, making it particularly uncomfortable. The other thing that ruined the atmosphere was the trained sniper pointing a gun at him from the other corner of the space, warning him to not make a move. Anthony had tried to fight him off when he appeared in his bedroom hours earlier, using the karate skill Sherlock had tried to instill in him, but he'd failed. So, in a final desperate attempt, he opened his bedside table drawer and pulled out the revolver Sherlock had given him for his sixteenth birthday. He knew shooting the criminal would only result in another coming for him, so he fired up into the ceiling.

It had been a valid assumption. He'd met his attacker years earlier, on a school trip to the local Dam. With all the buzz going on around it, why not expect to be the next victim?

He'd been wrong about where he was being taken, but it had given Sherlock an opportunity to speak with him, one that he might not have received otherwise. So, shooting the ceiling was a good decision, and something Anthony could be proud of.

Lately, there wasn't much. Anthony had disappointed his parents multiple times over the previous months. He had gone out and gotten drunk, turning himself into a walking caricature of the person he was meant to be. He didn't think too much about it, for a while, but he eventually started to realize that he'd said things to his father he could never take back. He had grown disinterested in his home life after that, avoiding his parents so he wouldn't have to show them his guilt. It wasn't just for that - there were other things, too. Anthony wasn't doing particularly well in school. He was doing fine – average, really – but it wasn't good enough. Science had been his best subject apart from art, but his teacher was hard on him, and he'd received a bad grade on his most recent exam. He knew he'd been having trouble, but he couldn't go to Sherlock for help. He was too embarrassed.

He just felt like, no matter how hard he tried, things weren't going right. And then there was the element of danger, and the lie he had to tell.

Sherlock couldn't know that Anthony was in trouble. He had started to suspect things around the time of the Dam case. He had the key to the emergency exit: that was something he'd been aware of for years. He always held onto his silver key, waiting for the day he'd finally figure out where it led to. He had Chris to thank for the idea.

"I wonder who stole it...sounds like a case for your Godfather!" his friend had suggested after their school trip to the underground tunnels.

It didn't take long to put two and two together, and Anthony was positive of his key's origins. He never had the chance to test the theory, though, and he wasn't ready to let Sherlock know he'd figured it out yet. Besides, what if he was wrong? The romantic in him always thought that the key could be more, some sort of post-mortem present from his Uncle, or maybe a new car when he got his license. It turned out that it wasn't. Anthony was just a cardholder. He was Sherlock's Safe-Keeping Box. He tried not to be too insulted.

And then he started to realize that he was in danger. It was too obvious: the murders in the Dam were clearly meant for Sherlock. Someone was playing a game with him. But telling his Uncle what he knew would mean ending the mystery of the key, so when Sherlock was out and his Dad wasn't around to interrogate him on his whereabouts, he snuck into 221B and found a way to contact the next best person to Sherlock Holmes...

Irene Adler was more than helpful, and Anthony had a feeling she would know about the key. Something bigger than the Dam case was brewing, Anthony could sense it, and he had never forgotten the dangers his family had faced during his childhood. Sherlock had claimed to end the terror, claimed that the Watsons could no longer be touched by whatever force had been after them until then, but there was something ominous about the game this new criminal was playing with Anthony's Uncle. If anyone could know, it would be Miss Adler.

So, Anthony contacted her, and she made a few suggestions. Anthony hadn't understood them completely, but he did his best, and he now knew that it had worked. Sherlock had found his way to Anthony's hiding places, locating all the proper keys and discovering the clue. Little did Anthony know that Kipp had been lying about knowing the clue, and when the evil came bounding through the door to collect Anthony's key to the Dam, he was furious to find that it was not the correct one.

Anthony thought it would be a good idea: hiding the right key but keeping a fake. His father wouldn't notice, wouldn't suspect anything out of the ordinary. He was surprised that Sherlock didn't notice, but it wasn't like he saw much of his Godfather. Besides, Sherlock was losing faith in himself, anyone could have told you that. He never noticed the switching of the keys. Perhaps deducing his way through Anthony's clues would wake up the part of his mind he thought he'd lost, giving him the courage to save his Godson? It was as good a hope as any, and Anthony had a feeling that his Godfather would not disappoint.

The only clue Anthony worried about was the first, but for some reason, he thought his Uncle might notice that he'd only professed his love for him once. Anthony knew how much those three little words meant to his mother and father when he said them, but Sherlock had never said them to Anthony. Still, Sherlock was like a father to him – he'd remember the single affirmation. It was something Anthony had always remembered. It was his twelfth birthday, and he'd drawn Sherlock a gift. It was full of clues, leading to the man as a boy in a tree. It was just a joke. But then, Sherlock was injured – shot – and Anthony was terrified of losing his Godfather without first letting him know how important he was to him. Sherlock had never said "I love you," so Anthony had never told him. He wrote his love on the page. It was his only opportunity to let the brilliant detective know, and it was a moment he hoped his Uncle would always remember.

So, when he had to decide where to leave his first key, it only made sense he utilize his little carved out moment. Sherlock in a tree – finding Anthony's Safe-Keeping Box key.

Until Anthony was in danger, he'd have to keep the secret of his endangerment. He had to keep a lot of secrets those past few months, leading to his distance. Not only had he lied about the keys, he'd lied about his feelings when his father was sick. It wasn't because they embarrassed him, he simply felt guilty giving Sherlock more responsibility, especially when he knew how much the man was hurting himself. He hadn't really figured that out: Sherlock was being so strong, so impressive, but the night Anthony had infiltrated what he thought would remain an empty flat to get Irene Adler's contact details, he found himself stuck in Sherlock's study when the man was escorted home prematurely by Inspector Lestrade. Anthony knew his Uncle was off-kilter when the detective didn't deduce his presence in the flat, his mind already deteriorating from the frustration of the London Dam case. His other clue lay in the conversation he overheard his Uncle having with the Inspector. They spoke about Anthony's Dad as if he were already dead. Sherlock didn't think that John would come home, and it was killing him as much as it killed Anthony. So, he kept his own sadness under wraps.

Anthony tried to be optimistic when his Dad miraculously returned, but his hurt from the situation festered in him until he revealed it on the night of his inebriation. It wasn't fair for him to have done that, and it made him feel anything but guiltless. Perhaps that was something Anthony shared with his Godfather: Sherlock always felt as though he were the source of people's problems.

Anthony hadn't only blocked out his family, either. In just a few short months, he'd also successfully managed to butcher his relationship with his best friend in the world.

It had started with passive-aggression. Anthony resented Chris for his absence during his father's coma, and after realizing how much he'd hurt him, he still avoided him, choosing Christine over his best friend more often than not. Anthony didn't understand: Chris didn't even like the girl that much. He never had. When they were kids, Anthony had asked him.

"No, mate," Chris insisted, laying back on the grass in Anthony's backyard. "She's yours, if you want her."

But Anthony didn't want her. He'd considered her, of course, but in the end he'd decided that their friendship was more important to him, and that it would probably end up being a more successful venture than anything romantic.

It turned out, though, that she _did _like Chris. So, she pursued him, and after asking for Anthony's permission, Chris allowed himself to be caught. Anthony never asked his friend why he'd accepted her interest, but he decided that Chris must have been lying to him all along. That was the first tear in their rope of trust. So, Anthony was angry, and he only got angrier as the months continued, but he tried to avoid an explosion until a few bottles of beer allowed it to escape from him. It didn't take long to renew their friendship, and then Christine left for school, giving Anthony all the time he wanted with his best friend. It was incredible: the boys hung out every day that they could, Anthony was painting the sets for Chris' shows, and they were as close as they'd ever been.

Then, Christmas came. When Chris called, Anthony thought it was funny, because he'd just been painting a picture of his friend. He was using his best paper, from the special supply Sherlock rekindled on occasion, the one with his title written upon it. It was one of his best pieces, and Anthony silently fumed at himself for not painting it on canvas instead, and giving it to his mate as a Christmas gift. He supposed he could re-do it, but this painting was perfect. It was Chris: it was his playful smile, it was the glint in his eyes, it was the wire-like quality of his hair...it was Anthony's best friend, through and through. They knew each other better than anyone in the world. No matter what happened, they'd always be together.

Which was why it surprised Anthony how pissed he got as soon as Chris told him about his break-up with Christine. He immediately assumed the worst for some reason, accusing Chris of leading her on and then hurting her. He hung up the phone on his friend, unaware of why he'd gotten so mad.

Then Christine came to Anthony, explaining everything. She'd broken up with Chris when she came home, and then she wanted him back, but Chris wouldn't have her.

Once Christine returned to University, Anthony confronted his friend. He demanded to know why he wouldn't take the sweet girl back. They were his best friends, so why shouldn't they be perfect together? They were part of his family, and now they were putting more strain on it. Anthony found himself commanding Chris to start dating Christine again, but his friend refused.

So, Anthony decided to hate him for tearing apart their surrogate family. Then Chris was mad.

"You're acting like a child, An!" Chris had yelled at him. "I thought you were better than this!"

Anthony was being childish. He knew he was, and he knew that he had been for some time. He was clinging onto childhood like it was the only thing keeping him alive, because if he wasn't a kid, that meant that he was in danger. It meant that there were people after him, people he didn't even know, who wanted to capture him just so they could hurt his Godfather. It meant that his Dad was sick, and had been sick, and could be sick again. Being an adult meant too many things too Anthony, so he decided to avoid it like the plague. But Anthony was still mad at his friend, so he'd retorted:

"Isn't that all I am to you, though? Just some stupid little kid you have to look after?"

"No..." Chris had mumbled. It was a month earlier, and they were alone in the school's art room. Chris had been following Anthony down the hall, so the younger boy had frantically pulled out his newest key and raced into the room. He pretended to work on something while Chris harassed him, begging him to listen to his plea. Of course, the plea had turned into a battle, and there they were, fighting over the same things they had been on about for weeks.

And then something new. In just a few phrases, Chris had changed everything, and all of a sudden, Anthony wasn't angry anymore.

He ran home, straight to his bedroom, and found the piece he'd been working on at Christmas. He observed it, taking in every last inch of his work, not deducing the picture, but himself. He didn't like what he found, so he tore the painting in half. Hearing his mother stepping up the stairs (more likely than not to collect his laundry), he pulled his Safe-Keeping Box from underneath his bed, tossed the ripped pages into it and hid them.

What better time than that to hide the key to his Safe-Keeping Box? It was at that moment that Anthony's plan became clear. First, after his mother had gone, he hid the key to the Dam's exit in his Safe-Keeping Box. Then, he hid the key to his Safe-Keeping Box in the tree out in the garden. He replaced them on his key chain with the silver key to a new lock for his locker and the key to the school's art room. It was exactly the distraction he'd needed from the day's events, and all of a sudden, getting caught by whoever was coming after him didn't seem like such a bad thing at all. It would be a new adventure, perhaps a healing one. Maybe one more problem would be exactly what his family needed to heal, and maybe Chris would realize that he, like his mother, didn't want anything to do with the Watson family. They were trouble. They were always _in _trouble. Stay away.

And danger had come, as it always did to the Watsons and the Holmes. Anthony was the child of danger, the child of adventure, and now he found himself curled up against the basement wall of the student theatre, otherwise empty during its time of renovation, waiting for the minutes to tick down until it was time for him to be killed.

Fifteen more minutes, and Anthony was scared. He was guilty and scared. He was so loved, so guilty, and so scared.

And then the floor caved in.


	43. Chapter 43

**Author's Notes: **I have nothing to say here except for thank you. Thank you for everything, thank you so much. Just...thank you!

Also, Chris Donovan is a BAMF. Read and review!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Forty-Three<strong>

John had forgotten he was capable of running so fast.

Chris had been the first to reach the front door of the partially-renovated student theatre, of course, and by the time Sherlock and John caught up to him he was already preparing to swipe the key and unlock the door, unprepared for what might be waiting for him inside.

"Good, Chris...thank you..." John was able to say through heavy breathing as he snatched the key from the teen's hand. Chris grabbed at it.

"Let's go in. He's in there, isn't he?"

"Yes..." Sherlock muttered. "Him...and, I suspect around six others, Kipp included."

Chris reached for the key again. "Alright. So let's go save him!"

"No," said John firmly. "You go back to the clock tower. It's safer there."

"I'm not leaving. How much time have we got left?"

John checked his watch. Only twenty minutes. He didn't answer the question. "Lestrade's meeting us here?" he asked Sherlock, who he'd just realized had forgotten to call their Inspector friend. He pulled out his mobile and made the call while Chris went on complaining:

"We haven't got enough _time _for this, Mr. Watson. We need to go in there, beat up some bad guys, and get our-get Anthony home."

John, as he had many times throughout the day, checked the back of his trousers for his gun. Why hadn't he kept it on his person? He could see Sherlock's protruding through his suit jacket pocket. "Chris, we have one revolver. We're hardly S.W.A.T."

"How do you even know _they _have guns?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who was talking to Lestrade, but looked as though he had overheard the enquiry. The detective nodded. "They do. It's too dangerous. Go."

"No!"

"Christopher Donovan, go _home!_" It was cruel to yell, John knew, but if his own son had to be in danger, he wouldn't allow Sally's to meet the same fate. It was more than that, too: John loved Chris. In some way, the fatherless boy had felt like his own. Chris and Anthony had grown up together, and up until recent months, it seemed strange to see them apart. Chris was a member of John's family, and he refused to see him hurt.

But Chris stood his ground, and straightened out his posture as he responded. "Mr. Watson, all do respect: but I'm eighteen now. You don't get a choice in the matter anymore."

And, at that moment, John saw that the little boy he once knew had absolutely become a man.

He was about to give the boy permission when Sherlock hung up his mobile and approached them, checking the time. "Lestrade's on his way. He's bringing a team. But..." he looked up at the window. "...They know we're here."

John clenched his hands into fists. He looked at Chris, who nodded sternly. "Now or never, then, is it?"

Sherlock addressed Chris. "You know the building?"

"Like my own house," he confirmed.

"As soon as we go in, you'll search for Anthony. It will be difficult to get around the initial warfare. They're waiting for us." Sherlock pulled his revolver from his back pocket and held it out to John. "You're the better shot. There are two snipers at the windows, and three others are unarmed. And Kipp, but he'll be hiding.

"What about Anthony's guard?" asked John, tilting his head towards Chris.

Sherlock shook his head. "He'll be upstairs by now. They need all their firepower upfront."

John took a deep breath as he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's revolver. He was walking onto the battlefield once more, this time with two unarmed friends. He would do everything he could to keep them safe. He handed the swipe key to Sherlock, giving over their fate. Sherlock held up three fingers, and then counted them down.

He swiped the key, and threw the door open.

And then all hell broke loose.

John was immediately transported, his eyes catching upon every shiny object in the lobby. Sherlock had been correct: three armed snipers had been waiting there for them, hidden behind the boarded up windows. His first shots were accurate, and he was able to disarm the first two in moments. His third shot, however, was a miss. The criminal was aiming at John when, all of a sudden, a foot collided with his nose, knocking him out. Chris looked all too proud of himself.

"And Adam always said I should take karate instead of ballet," he quipped. John ran up to the unconscious sniper and took his weapon. He handed it to Chris.

"You're supposed to be finding Anthony," he reminded the teen, who stared at the revolver as if it were the most foreign object in the world. He nodded and ran into the box office. Through the window, John could see him opening another door to a flight of stairs and heading downwards.

His mind raced as his eyes searched for Sherlock. John and Chris had taken out three of the five gang members who were meant to be present already. But where _were _the others?

The noise from the audience gave them away, and John rushed through the doors to the theatre. There, he found Sherlock, and he was battling far more than two men.

There must have been at least fifteen, John though, as he aimed his weapon at the squadron of wrong-doers. He shot three, and then he had run out of bullets. Shame on him for not counting.

He caught Sherlock's eye. There were only supposed to be three more men. The detective had placed full faith in him, and John had not disappointed. Sherlock was the one who'd been wrong about how many people to expect.

So, it was two against the world. John raced into the guerrilla battle with no mind for himself. They couldn't take on everyone, but perhaps he and Sherlock would be able to escape and follow Chris on the search for Anthony. Perhaps they could get out alive.

But, as they fought off countless attackers, John soon realized that there wasn't a way out. If there were so many men upstairs, who was to say how many were underground with Chris and Anthony? What if both boys were now being held captive? What if they had lost?

And then someone yelled, and the fighting stopped. For a moment, John thought it was Lestrade who was firing bullets into the air, calming the crowd. Sadly, he was wrong.

Michael Kipp stood stage right, gun held above his head, grinning like a mad man.

"We meet again," he flirted.

Sherlock stood up on one of the theatre seats for a better view, and John followed suit. They were still surrounded. No way out. "We brought you something."

"Yes..." Kipp sneered. "You seem quite eager to give it to me as well, don't you?"

John prayed that Lestrade would get there soon.

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "But first: give us the boy."

Kipp laughed, and John glared. "You first, my dear. I'd be quick about it, too. You only have...oh, about ten minutes left, I believe?"

Sherlock looked as though he were about the speak, but suddenly all attention went to stage left. Chris Donovan entered through the wings, tip-toeing towards Kipp. "He doesn't have it," Chris said loudly enough for the entire audience of soldiers to hear him. The teen was still holding the gun John had given him, but he let it fall to the floor, as if trying to earn Kipp's trust. Sherlock placed an arm on John's wrist, pretending to steady himself, but John knew that it was really to keep him from revealing Chris' dishonesty. What was the young man planning?

"I expect you _do, _then?" Kipp asked Chris, maintaining his position. Chris nodded, still cautiously walking, and stopped when he reached centre stage. He reached his hand into his upstage pocket, and held it out to Kipp, closed. It seemed odd: John didn't remember Chris having anything on his person, unless it was the silver key, but even then...

He patted at his own hip. Yes, John had the key. So what was _Chris _carrying?

"It's yours: the clue. Take it," Chris insisted, shaking whatever he was concealing in his palm.

Kipp took a moment to look him over, and then he grinned. "Smart boy, out to save your friend. Going about it exactly as you should, too." He stepped towards Chris, stopping directly in front of him. "Give me what's rightfully mine," he demanded, reaching out for the clue. But Chris was unmoving. "I promise to give you exactly what you came for...unless...no, that's not what you want, is it?" Kipp sounded impatient, but he also seemed willing to play for a little while. "You want power? Money, perhaps? You could have both, you know, a boy as bright as you..."

"I'm not a boy."

"Of course not," Kipp agreed, and John could see his obstructed arm reaching towards his waist. His fingers twitched for his own revolver before he remembered it was empty. "What would you like me to call you, then?" Kipp was asking, coyly.

"An actor."

Then Kipp looked furious. "Why?"

"I'm good with imaginary objects!" Chris opened his hand. There was nothing in it. Kipp dug into his waistband for a weapon just as Chris leaped up into the air. As the teen's feet returned to the stage floor, the entire surface broke, reducing the old building's dramatic platform to a hole in the ground.

At that moment, Scotland Yard was racing into the building, holding Kipp's gang at gunpoint and finally giving John an opportunity to race back to the box office and down the stairs into the basement. He could smell the area beneath the stage, and he rushed towards it, begging the universe to have kept his son safe. But, in all the rubble, he couldn't find anything except Kipp. The evil man was buried under the ruins of the old stage, groaning, and part of John wanted to make a joke about exactly how much the building must have needed renovation, but he was too focused. One of Lestrade's men had followed him down the stairs, and began to uncover Kipp, all the while listing his rights to him. John kept on looking for Anthony and Chris.

He didn't know how long he'd been searching when he found Sherlock next to him, doing exactly the same thing. They searched in silence for a few minutes before John heard the moan. It came from behind a long beam of wood, and when John removed it, he found exactly what he'd been looking for. Anthony was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his face, guarding himself. John grabbed his wrists.

"Are you all right?" he demanded, and Anthony opened his eyes.

"Dad...I..." he looked around the room. "What happened?"

John searched his son for injuries, and the only one he found was at the boy's temple. It was not serious, but it must have knocked him out, because Anthony looked no less than bewildered. He helped his son to his feet, and just as he was going to lift him out of the room, Sherlock got in the way.

The detective grabbed Anthony by his arms, taking in the sight of him, and if John didn't know any better, he'd say that his friend looked as though he were about to start crying.

"You found me, Uncle," Anthony whispered, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back. "You made it simple," he said, and then he placed his hand on the back of Anthony's neck and drew the teen's forehead to his lips firmly. After lingering there for a moment, he finally released the boy from his grasp and announced, proudly: "I love you, too."

The reunion was beautiful, but John still remembered that they had a second boy to find.

"Chris went through the floor too, didn't he?" John asked, trying to remember the teen's heroic act. Sherlock nodded.

"Chris?" Anthony asked, suddenly alert. "He was...here?"

John stumbled around the space, pushing things over as he answered: "You've got him to thank for taking Kipp out." When he glanced back, he could see that Anthony looked quite proud of his friend's accomplishment for a moment before returning his expression to one of extreme anxiety.

The three of them pushed over every piece of stage they could on their search for Anthony, until finally John's eyes fell upon a cylinder in the middle of the room. "What's that?"

"It's part of a trap door system," Anthony answered, and walked around the structure to the other side. "The door is blocked," he told his father as he started to uncover the large beam. Sure enough, when they were able to remove all the rubble, there was a short door. "We only ever used it once, for _Macbeth's _beheading. It's not meant for full people."

Anthony crouched down and ran his fingers over the small doorway. He started patting at it, just like he had when he was a toddler searching through cupboards. He pried the small door open, and sure enough, there were Chris' feet from the knees down.

"We'll have to cut him out," Sherlock said, bursting into action. He waved over some more of Lestrade's people to help him as he started to tear away at the beam, ripping it apart layer by layer.

As the adults worked on the beam, Anthony grabbed his friend's ankles, and they heard a shriek echoing from inside. Anthony pressed his head to the floor so he could yell into the beam. "S'alright, Chris!" he told his friend. "We'll have you out in just a minute!"

_"An, is that you?"_

John could see his son smile, perhaps a little sadly. "Yeah. It's my turn to save you, now."

There was a pause before Chris' voice was heard from inside the beam again. _"It's bad luck to to say _Macbeth _inside a theatre, you know."_

Anthony laughed.

And, in that moment, the clouds were cleared from in front of John's eyes.


	44. Chapter 44

**Author's Notes: ** So, we've reached the end. This will be the last 'plot' chapter and then I have an epilogue in the works (stick around for it, I adore it). Big thanks to every single person who has read this story, and especially to those who reviewed. Your thoughts have touched me significantly over these past weeks and I've truly enjoyed writing this piece. Stay tuned for the last chapter, and if you have any questions, ask them now and I'll try to cover them in the next installment!

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><p><strong>Anthony, Chapter Forty-Four<strong>

John stood back and watched, bewildered, while Sherlock, Anthony and Lestrade's officers tore the beam into pieces to free Chris. As soon as it was taken apart, Chris fell to his knees, exhausted from having to stand in the enclosed space for so long. Anthony tried to grab him on his way down, but fell as well, clutching onto the other teen's arms.

"It's all right," he insisted, wiping the sweat from Chris' brow and dusting off his clothes. "I'm here. I've got you."

Chris was apologizing frantically. "An, I'm so sorry...for the things I said. I'm sorry! I didn't mean it..."

But Anthony was smiling. "Didn't you?" he asked, and John stole a glance from Sherlock, who was watching the reunion as intensely as he was. "Because I was sort of hoping you did..."

And with that, Anthony took one of Chris' hands into his and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"Oh...no..." John mumbled, and Anthony instantly pulled away, dropping Chris' hands.

"Dad!" he gasped. "It's not...I mean, it's-"

But John had pressed a hand to his temple and kept muttering. "Oh, Jesus, no, _no_..."

"John!" Sherlock chided for Anthony's sake, looking furious.

And then John started to laugh, and they all stared at him, waiting for an explanation. John addressed his son: "Of all the people you could have chosen from – anyone in the world – you have to go and fall for _Sally Donovan's_ kid!"

Anthony chuckled, too. "Yeah," he shrugged, looking sheepish. "I guess I didn't quite think that one through." John opened his arms, and Anthony stood so that he could finally run into them, reuniting father and son. "Love you, Dad," Anthony whispered.

"I know, Son. I know..."

_"CHRISTOPHER MALCOLM DONOVAN!"_

Chris stood up instantly at the sound of his mother's voice, and his previously happy face had become one of absolute terror. Sally and Mary were racing into the room, Irene traipsing in nonchalantly behind them. Mary immediately embraced Anthony, who accepted the gesture happily, while Sally snatched her son by the front of his shirt.

"You...I never..." Sally was furious, glaring at him, and despite Chris being a technical adult, he looked horrified. Sally stopped when she noticed Anthony. "I'll get to you later, young man," she told her son, freeing him from her grasp. She then rushed over to Anthony, pulled Mary out of the way and snatched the blonde teen violently into her arms. "Don't you _ever_ scare us like that again!" she yelled, and John had a slight suspicion that she was starting to cry.

"Ow..." Anthony mumbled. She let him go after placing a series of lipstick stains on his cheeks. "Okay, Ms. Donovan...I promise."

There were a series of reunions and conversations about how to deal with the band of criminals that had just been defeated, but in the middle of it all, Mary poked John and directed his gaze to the opposite corner of the room. The Woman had pulled Sherlock aside, and they seemed to be having a pleasant chat with one another, no doubt complimenting the brilliance of each in saving Anthony's life and bringing London to justice. Sherlock had his hands clasped behind his back, only breaking their connection when Irene said what appeared to be her goodbye and then kissing him square on the lips. He started to bring his hands towards her, but stopped himself before he touched her. She pulled away, smirked, and left the detective standing alone in evident shock.

Anthony laughed from John's other side. "About bloody time."

John started laughing as well when Sherlock looked over at the pair of them as though he'd been caught in the act of something disgraceful.

Irene came over to the group, and placed a hand on Anthony's cheek. "Smart young, you. And, may I add-" she nodded her head to Chris, "-rather good taste, too." She ran her hand through his curls before turning to John. "You should be very proud of your wife, you know. She's better than you'd think with a revolver." John turned to his wife, who was rolling her eyes.

"I'm better at bludgeoning than I am aiming," she said. "Hardly army material."

"Nonsense," Irene scolded, "You were completely brilliant."

Mary smiled. "Well, I had a fantastic partner."

John gaped at the two women as they shared a friendly hug and started exchanging contact information. "What have we created?" he asked Sherlock, who had finally escaped his frozen state to join the group.

"I don't know," Sherlock grumbled, narrowing his eyes. "But I don't like it."

John tugged on his friend's arm, creating space between them and the girls. "And what were the two of you chatting about, eh?" he asked, winking.

Sherlock gave an annoyed sounding exhale. "Nothing of note," he said, but John raised his eyebrow at him. Sherlock sighed, again. "She was insisting that none of this was a fault of mine, but she's quite wrong. I made a great many mistakes today."

"There you go, always blaming yourself for everything." John placed a hand on Sherlock's forearm, squeezing it firmly. "You were _amazing,_ as always. You saved Anthony."

"Actually, I think I have many to thank for his life, myself _least _of all."

"Well, then you're finally getting old," John said, and Sherlock appeared offended by the statement, which was a more comforting response than the agreement he'd given earlier. Breaking the tension, John added: "About time you caught up with the rest of us."

The day was coming to an end, and Mary grasped John's hand as Lestrade led the group out of the basement. As John helped his wife manoeuvre around broken panels of wood and other debris, he glanced back behind him, and caught Anthony and Chris stealing a peaceful kiss.

"So, _that_ finally happened, did it?" asked Mary, her gaze following his.

"You knew?" John asked his wife.

She looked surprised. "Of course I knew. You didn't?"

"No..."

Sherlock scoffed next to him, beginning a familiar mantra. "As always, my dear Watson: you _see,_ but you do not _observe._"

The following weeks were spent returning to normal, but with a few new additions to the usual routine:

For one, Sherlock came over to the house as often as ever, but some nights, when he, John and Mary were chatting in the living room, the doorbell would ring. Irene Adler would be waiting outside, never showing up without some sort of small token or gift. Mary had grown fond of the Woman, and John knew that they often went out together, Molly joining them as well.

"I dane to know what they get up to, what they chat about," John told Sherlock once at the flat.

The detective looked about as thrilled by their relationship as he did. "As do I, John. As do I."

"Looks like our women are about to become the next unbeatable pairing."

"_Our _women, John?"

John shrugged and gave Sherlock a knowing look, causing the man to scoff and fold his arms in disaffirmation.

The other new thing – but really, was it _so _new? - was the relationship between Anthony and Chris. They decided to wait until Anthony's seventeenth birthday to announce their coupling to their friends. John watched sneakily through the window, gauging the different reactions. Christine looked annoyed but accepting, Nate looked as though he'd known all along, and Adam was the only one with any inkling of surprise on his face. Their nonchalance was what comforted John, though: Anthony had indeed found some solid friends.

John didn't talk to Anthony much about Chris, except on the night weeks earlier when his son had received an acceptance letter to his dream school. The evening had been spent in celebration, and when Mary went up to bed, John stayed up on his laptop, checking out Anthony's program. A couple of hours into the night, Anthony came down the stairs for a midnight snack, and the two had started talking. Anthony was opening up to his father again, like he had when he was young, and any tension that had been between them months earlier had now officially disappeared. When he was feeling brave enough, John brought up Chris.

"I suppose I had just assumed that you liked...well, girls."

Anthony shrugged. "I did," he said, and took a sip of his warmed milk. "I do," he admitted. He took a moment to himself, looking thoughtful. "I guess I just...liked Chris more, you know?"

On the day following Anthony's birthday, Sherlock came to the house to give him his gift. Chris was at the house, as well, and Sherlock handed a small wrapped box to Anthony. He opened it swiftly, revealing the same silver key that had been the crux of his kidnapping.

"I don't understand, Uncle," said Anthony, eyeing the key.

Sherlock's eyes glimmered. "It's a useless gift, I suppose, when one already knows the clue."

Anthony's brow furrowed. "The clue led to me, didn't it?"

But Sherlock peered at Chris, and the young man seemed to know exactly what was going on, despite the fact that no one else did. "No, An...the clue was about Big Ben. But we looked – there was nothing there. No secret treasures, or anything out of the ordinary."

"You think?" Sherlock asked. "Michael Kipp seemed quite certain that the key would lead him to something worth killing for. Perhaps it's just...not so simple as to be concealed by a single clue."

In that lay Anthony's birthday gift: a new mystery. It was one that he and Chris would work on together every summer they were home from University, and on and on for years to come, inspiring countless art pieces from John's son and tales of adventure from the two as a pair until the case was finally solved.

That summer, however, was exceeding peaceful, and after Mycroft's almost military insistence that all of Britain be searched for any more connections to Kipp, the Watson family was finally given the news that they were no longer in any conceivable danger.

"How long d'you think that'll last this time?" John asked Sherlock as Mycroft got into his van. Sherlock's lip twitched, but he contained his amused smirk long enough for his brother to drive away.

Eventually, the day came for Anthony to go off to University. He was moving to Cambridge, while Chris had already left for a theatre program in Scotland. Sherlock accompanied the Watsons to the train station, and after a series of heartfelt goodbyes, it was time for Anthony to go.

John squeezed Mary's hand as their son dragged his suitcase into the station, and pecked her cheek once he was out of sight.

"I'll go start the car," she told him, kissing him back, and left.

He heard Sherlock take a deep breath on his other side.

"An artist. You must be so disappointed," John joked, not yet ready to leave.

"Hardly," Sherlock answered adamantly. "To be a good artist, one must be able to find the beauty in even the most mundane image. It's not so far off from deduction, really."

"So, you think he's good?"

"He will surely be great."

"Nice that you have so much faith in him," John whispered sincerely. Sherlock chuckled.

"There's a lesson I learned as a young man that has not been tarnished since," he informed John.

"And what's that?"

Sherlock placed an arm on John's back, turning him away from the station. He grinned proudly. "_Never_ underestimate a Watson."


	45. Epilogue

**Author's Notes: **Here it is, as promised. Short and sweet, just the way I always intended it to be. I've already started writing little ficlets within this Universe, which I will hopefully start posting in the upcoming weeks. But for those who just wanted a little primer as to what happened to John, Sherlock and the Watsons...well, here you go!

Also, I have recently started a new chaptered piece you should all check out called "Untouched." It's my latest head canon of "The Empty House" and it exists outside of my Anthony Universe, although Mary _is _in it. No Anthony, though. Whenever I post a ficlet within this Universe, I'll be sure to write it in the description.

Finally, I'm interested in writing up a massive Author's Notes chapter, in which I intend to answer any unresolved questions that have either been asked over private messaging or just things I never covered in the story, as well as writing a few Encyclopedia-esque things about the story. So, if you have any further questions or comments about the world of "Anthony", tell me now, and I'll see if I can cover it!

For now, I just want to thank you all so _so much _for all of your support. Writing this story has been such a blessing, and I'll be sad to say goodbye to all of these characters...but, of course, I'm not! Not really. Thanks again for everything, readers. You've been fantastic.

* * *

><p><strong>Anthony, Epilogue<strong>

Anthony did very well in school. So well, in fact, that he graduated with honours, leading him on to various internships and odd jobs that slowly built themselves into fairly successful career in the arts for a young man his age. However proud John was of him, Sherlock's pride rivalled that, and Anthony found himself, as always, with the greatest support system he ever could have hoped for.

John was never without support, either. He and Sherlock didn't stop taking cases – in fact, five years after sending Anthony off to school, John was able to retire. The extra time was ample for cases, and while neither man could run around quite the way they used to, they never left a case unsolved.

The Christmas after Anthony had finished University, John received one of the most thoughtful gifts he'd ever been given.

"This is from both of us," Sherlock told him, placing a light hand on Anthony's shoulder as he handed John a magnificently wrapped box.

The gift was a beautifully bound book of their adventures together, each story completed with a sketch drawn by John's son. John's blog posts were collected as if they were part of a literary classic, and the images enhanced the sentimental language, providing a visual to John's stories. He was overwhelmed, and he tried not to let his eyes water as he flipped to the front of the book, Sherlock's inscription inside the cover, wishing him a 'Merry Christmas' and toasting 'To a second volume!' The gift was utterly sentimental, and John was fairly sure that the idea had probably come from Anthony, but the triumphant look on Sherlock's face made him realize how little that mattered.

Over the years, Anthony dated a number of people, but he always ended up back with Chris. The two moved in together once they were both out of Uni, the two artists sharing a dreadful flat in downtown London. With help from Mycroft, Sherlock bought Anthony a small studio space, and Chris seemed to be doing well also, getting odd roles in semi-professional companies. They were just starting out, but they were always moving forward. They never stopped searching – however infrequently - for whatever treasures lay behind the silver key, and they didn't discover the answer to that until they were in their fifties.

It was no surprise to anyone when they decided to get married. Anthony had just turned twenty-three, and he had come home for Sherlock's fifty-fifth birthday celebration, which Mary had insisted they throw. Everyone in Sherlock's life was present at the Watson home, including Irene Adler, who had flown from her new home in America especially for the occasion.

The Woman was openly flirting with Sherlock, who John assumed had finally decided to accept the fact that they were – unofficially, of course – in some sort of relationship. However, Sherlock's gaze was elsewhere, watching Anthony and Chris across the room. In a moment of silence, he blurted: "You're getting married."

The entire room gasped as Anthony turned beet-red. Mary looked as though she might cry, she was so thrilled. Finally, Anthony replied, "And here I was thinking that _we'd _get to make the announcement."

The wedding was simple but beautiful. Anthony and Chris' friends had insisted upon making all the arrangements. Nathaniel was Chris' best man, and Christine – who had, of course, gotten over her young affair with one of the grooms – signed on to be Anthony's, insisting that she still be referred to as the "Maid of Honour." Adam, however, got ordained online, making for a particularly entertaining ceremony. When he called for the boys to seal their marriage with a kiss, the funny man – who had just finished Teacher's College, to everyone's amazement – leaned his face in-between them, collecting a kiss on either cheek. After the laughter died down, Anthony and Chris got their kiss.

John thought he could hear Sherlock sniff next to him. He, however, was openly sobbing. Mrs. Hudson leaned over his shoulder to snap a photo. It was the happiest of any wedding he'd ever seen, apart from his own, of course.

One of the great many blessings, in John's mind, was that Mrs. Hudson was able to see the boys get married before passing away. She passed a little over a month later, exiting the living world peacefully in her sleep. On the night of her funeral, the two men who loved her best stayed up until dawn, drinking to her life.

Even with all the happiness of a new marriage and the promise of more exciting cases, there was more tragedy, too. In a sudden twist of events, Mycroft died. It was a few years later when John was drawn down his stairs in the earliest hours of the morning to open the door for Sherlock, who hadn't seemed to consider the possibility of him being asleep after midnight. At first John thought there must be some new mystery to solve – one that could probably wait until sunlight – but when he saw the defeated look on his friend's face and the quivering of his lip as he apologized, he knew there was more to it than that. Mycroft never had a funeral, just as he had always requested, but when John accompanied Sherlock to the Government man's old office to collect his things, they were met by dozens of Mycroft's staff. The encounter became a sort of silent vigil, all of Mycroft's company wordlessly displaying their respect for him. It was one of the few times John ever saw Sherlock openly start to cry, and he was amazed when it was Anthea, of all people, to take him into her arms and sob quietly with him. John made a point of having Mary invite Anthea to one of her girls' nights.

Oh yes, those still happened. Irene Adler moved back to America not long after Anthony had left for school, but she came back occasionally to visit. The group of women that gathered included Mary, Irene, and Molly, but eventually it grew to accept Anthea and even Sally Donovan, who seemed thrilled to be spending time without men around.

When Anthony was twenty-seven, Sherlock attended his birthday party, despite the fact that Mycroft's death was still rather fresh. It had affected Anthony, as well, and the young man seemed reluctant to announce that he and Chris were going on a month-long trip to Singapore for their wedding Anniversary. John couldn't help noticing the questioning look on Sherlock's face as they said their goodbyes, and the slight suspicion in his eyes.

When the boys returned, Anthony took one look at Sherlock and groaned. "Perhaps you could allow_ us _the honour, this time?"

For the first time in a while, John saw Sherlock fully grin, and he knew that whatever news Anthony and Chris had brought home had healed his friend in some way.

The news was a baby girl that the boys had gone to Singapore to collect. Chris carried her into the house, and John immediately felt like snatching her away into his own arms to observe her. She had black curls covering her forehead, and her little eyes were the darkest brown John thought they could possibly be.

"What's her name?" Mary asked as she looked down at her son's new baby.

"Shirley."

John's eyes widened. "Really?" he marvelled. Sherlock was already chuckling.

"No," Anthony replied, deadpan. "Her name is Sally." Anthony's expression was threatening, not allowing his family to react.

"It's alright," Chris told them, shrugging. "It wasn't exactly my idea, either."

"Sally..." Mary cooed down at her. "Sally who?"

"Well, since her first name is from Chris' family, we thought we'd give her one from mine." Anthony had a sad smile. "We were thinking of calling her Sally Rose, if that's okay."

"Sally Rose..." John heard Sherlock whisper next to him.

"I think it's perfect," Mary told her son, and John nodded his own agreement. "Welcome to the family, little Sally."

The new baby seemed to ignite a light inside of Sherlock that had previously been extinguished by his brother's death, and the consulting detective was back in action like never before, saving London one criminal mastermind at a time. John joined him on many of these cases, and they often invited Lestrade along with them, since the man was getting so bored in his retirement. Mary used to joke that while she had her girls' nights, they had boys' mystery nights. Occasionally, Sherlock would even allow Anthony or Chris to join them, but the boys were far too busy after the arrival of Sally.

And, honestly, Sherlock was far more interested in the baby than in his cases. Watching Sherlock with Sally was reminiscent of how he had been with Anthony, and it was no surprise when his son came to Sherlock to ask whether or not it was appropriate for him to be the little girl's Godfather.

"Is there such a thing as a Grand-Godfather?" he asked. Sherlock just smirked, and accepted the position immediately.

John and Mary were pouring all of their love into the little girl, but Sherlock was seldom far away from their visits, as much a part of her life as they were. John never minded, and nor did Mary. They had always been a bit of a trio, after all. And besides, they'd raised one together, why not try another? In his mind, John could see the life Sherlock was going to give Sally Rose, and he knew that her life would never be void of excitement and adventure.

It worried him as much as it thrilled him, and one night after the baby's first birthday, John awoke to use the toilet. On his way there, though, he passed by his old work study, in which they had rebuilt Anthony's crib for the nights upon which she would stay over. The door was open just a crack, and there was just a bit of light coming from it, as though his desk lamp had been turned on. Leaning his head in, he noticed the open window, and he caught Sherlock Holmes cradling the baby girl in his arms, humming one of his old violin favourites to her. After a moment, John could hear his friend whisper:

"Sally Rose, I have so much to teach you."

"Oh, dear God," John mumbled to himself as he watched the scene through the doorway. Sherlock, caught off-guard, looked up from the tiny face. John couldn't contain his smirk. "Not this again."


End file.
